Thursday, December 13, 2012

The Razor Edge of Midnight

She's a dancer. If you weren't already in love with her, this would have done the trick. Somehow you cannot stop thinking of dark back alleyways in the middle of the night where she stumbles through, drunk and dizzy, her smudged mascara masking her eyes from the light. You think of the leers she might get, and shiver because she's so tiny.

But mostly you can't help but think of her in bed, tangled between your sheets as you run a hand along her stomach. She's a dancer, and you hadn't noticed it before, but here, alone without the barrier of clothing,  you feel it in the defined muscles on her abdomen, in the way her firm legs wrap around you and pull you in, in the way she arches - off the bed and into you.You taste the alcohol on her and pretend that drunk isn't the only way you find her in your bed. Lie, and tell yourself that next time you won't answer the 2am knock on the door.

When she comes down, she tells you she loves you. But she's a dancer. And you're inadequate.

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