This fabulous woman with the red hair and green eyes ... I want to fuck her senseless. I want to feel the moistness of her, inside, and that one place -- that one place -- where she rubs against me and ... yes, she makes me explode in a way no other living soul ever has. I love our recent Saturday evenings together. We'll go to the Academy, we'll go to the Rodin, we'll walk along the Parkway, and all I've got in my mind, all that's in my head as we make our way across the galaxy of our evening together, all I can imagine is being with her in bed. And the small of her back, my hands around the small of her back. And the red hair, twirling in my dark brown-haired forearms. And the curved line where her abdomen meets her hips ... as they merge into my own hips, hairier and more muscular. Not an ounce of fat on either of us. Delicious.
I enjoy these nights, gin martinis at the Top of the Warwick, beef tenderloin and roasted asparagus, the walk to the Academy (or whichever, doesn't matter to me), our walk back to the place, a brief nod to the grandmother waiting in the lobby, up the stairs, clothes disappearing before our conjoined bodies hit the sheets. And the twenty minutes of ecstacy (if we can make it that long) before we spend ourselves and collapse in a state of luxuriated bliss and exhaustion. And then we fall asleep, the warmth of our trembling skin settling into each other's blood stream, making its way to our languid hearts.
Too many adjectives, too many nouns, too many over-excited verbs. But how else does a husband of nine years describe what it's like to be inside his wife, our two children murmuring quiet sleep in the adjacent rooms, my mother the babysitter having just left, two minutes before we came? This red-headed woman's still the one who does it for me. If only she weren't a needy, demanding bitch in every other aspect of our life together.
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