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of a ceiling fan
I'd been there for a month, spent most afternoons with her sitting around the pool. Her husband was out, her kids were asleep and we met in the kitchen fresh from showers, her hair piled up, mine still damp, curling at the base of my neck. We were drinking chilled white wine, talking about sex, and when her arm brushed mine as she reached for her glass, she kept it there, skin against skin, looked at me and sighed
bowls of ripe fruit
and I imagined tasting the wine on her lips, her breasts pressed against my palms, and her mouth, the mouth she'd joked could pleasure any man, pleasuring me. But then she stood up, kissed my cheek, said, Good night honey and walked through the shadowy sitting room. And it was my turn to sigh, glad that nothing had happened, that I'd go home with no secret between us, to tell or to keep.
my fingers in the dark