The hairy V-shape of his bush, still light brown after all these decades, the smooth contours of his abdominal muscles, wrapped tightly around his stomach, the line of curly hair leading up the belly button to his pectorals, the gray in his chest hair, emanating outward from the concave center to the mauve nipples on either side, his rounded shoulders and the veiny biceps, the long dark hair, ever so slightly receding, ever so slightly gray, the goatee, mostly gray but who cares? And the scent of him above me, licking him in the center, the familiar texture with its veins, the two pillows that it rests on – the scent of him, as familiar to me as my grandmother’s white silk negligee. Like the pajamas I wear to bed every Saturday evening for our weekly ritual, I’ve worn him around my heart these thirty-two years.
“Martha, where’s dinner?”
“Coming, George,” I’d answer, taking my time, knowing he’ll be impatient even if I bring it to the table in thirty seconds, ergo taking my own time.
“Martha, rub my feet for me, honey.”
“In a moment, George, after I finish folding the laundry,” I’d reply, my heart folding at the edges, knowing that my boy needed me, the chores of the day enveloping me in warm coziness. And loving those little disagreements, the bossiness, and the arguments that have all led up to that weekly ritual of his scent, staring up at him from that place between his legs, as only I can do.
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