Let Me Tell You Something
If you think by your death you have left me alone to pine, to regret, to watch cable TV, you’re wrong. At bedtime I wear a new black lace gown and arrange myself to advantage on sheets finer than any we shared. I’ve left the back door open. I believe I thrum. I hear his step and then we begin.
He attends to that place below my ears, knows how to rub and nip. There is time for my breasts, time for him to stoke me, each inch until my supple back arches, reaches, pleads, demands his weight. We twist, turn, lift, sate, shout, pound pillows, laugh.
Then something, a noise? I wake, on my side of our quiet bed, my short white hair mussed, our gray cat stretched along my pale, restless thigh.