Naked bodies interlace, a Saturday afternoon stolen while the children are away. Two decades of lust and love mingle with extra pounds, receding hair lines, sagging breasts. A comfortable sense of familiarity not taken for granted. Her hand rests on his soft belly, the tips of her fingers caressing his treasure trail. The weight of her head in the crick of his shoulder is comforting. The nice thing about a long term relationship is you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not.
“Do you remember the first time we made love” he asks?
“Yes” she says, kissing his neck, “Why?”
“I was terrified. I wanted you so much, and I was so worried you wouldn’t like me.”
She snuggles closer, hugging his chest.
“If I recall correctly, I was the one who invited you into my bed. How could you think I didn’t like you?”
His hand follows the tendrils of her hair.
“I knew you liked me, I was afraid you’d find me disappointing, you know, as a lover.”
He buries his face in her hair.
“Oh,” she says quietly.
The silence settles over them like a quilt. Her hand moves lower to the top of his groin, entangled in his garden; he sighs and sinks deeper into her hair.
“I wasn’t worried,” she purrs, drifting deeper into a sated sense of being. “I knew you were the one I always wanted to wake up next to.”
His arms wreath around her, trying to pull her closer.
“And now” he murmurs?
She coils her body around his.
©2010 VL Sheridan