The Books

I woke a little after ten, having slept well, in great form, thrilled actually, invigorated as one can only be after a night of hard core loving. I made a pot of French press and stood in the kitchen staring out the window at the bright snow covering the land that led to Lake Leelanau. I brought her coffee in the cedar pulp mug. She sat up drowsily in bed, milky shoulders above a blue duvet, leaning on soft pillows. She took the steaming mug with both hands and looked at me.

“That was crazy,” she said.

“You Ok?”

“Yeah. I’m Great. i just can’t feel my legs.”

I sat next to her. She took a sip, handed me the mug, and leaned back deeper into the pillows.

“That’s one for the books, buddy,” she said.

I put the mug on the bedside table and moved to her and let my hands roam in the unconscious, unrestricted freedom that exists between lovers; over her legs, up her inner thigh, brushing over her soft belly, stopping there, making light spirals with my knuckles.

“Don’t go near there, mister,” she said.

I lay soft, dry kisses along the downy expanse of her neck; the sweet smell of dried sweat, salt on skin, the mingling aromas of our bodies cocooned in the white sheets and blue duvet. I slipped beneath the blanket and our bodies melded together, the winter chill a shadow on my thin form, her body a hot ember.

We lay together, drifted in and out of doze. Stark silver light of a grey winter sky and snow covered earth refracted through the windows. The scent of fresh brewed coffee filling the small apartment. “When my legs start working I'd like to do a snow shoe.” she said, waking me up.

“Yes, baby, yes,” I said.