red heels and wilted ivory

We lay basking contentedly in the drowsy-afternoon sun, the curtains drifting gently in the giving providence of summer’s breeze; her breasts, falling in curvaceous grace, bathed in the amber glow. Her eyes closed, she accepted me watching her, coveting her essence.

Determined clicking of sultry heels approached on the walkway outside my apartment door, and I said without needing to see who it’d been, “That’s her. Poor soul is adrift in an ocean of loneliness.”

Pushing me aside, she rose purposefully, pulling the white silk negligee across her body, though only part way. Answering the door herself, she quickly dispatched the hopeful bones of the other with insistent whispers, words which I dared not know. I was only able to distinguish the slow-scuffle of dispirited heels echoing, diminishing in retreat as the door was closed. Red, I’d assumed.

Returning with a simpering smile that masked a murder, she said nothing of the visitor. The silk fell in a sigh of wilted ivory, and she pushed me down, taking what she hungered of me. Then we slept, the peaceful sleep of lovers without weight of doubt; we slept until the setting sun gave way to the darkness of a starless summer-night’s haunting misgivings.

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