A Moment Imagined (by them)

Her.

He sat in a corner with a cup of coffee and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

I switched on the light and asked him what turned him on

He laughed. A slow deep laugh that crossed the room in waves and caressed my cheek.

Clearly not my anklets that jangle and make heads turn, I say as I sit and pout

He blows a circle of smoke and watches me through it.

I imagine how I must look to him through that haze, maybe like the multitude of black and white photographs his room is strewn with.

Entwined limbs. Deep kisses caught midway, a forlorn distant look and a lock of hair on a face. Deep soulful eyes.

I take a sip from his coffee. That mix of cigarette smoke and the strong smell of coffee beaten just right make for a heady experience.

He looks at the cup where I sipped from and traces a finger on it. I feel like I have been touched. I wonder if he even notices what he does to me

He talks to me about the books I love, I talk to him about the tattoos I have. He wants a closer look at the one on my ankle.

I put my feet forward. In a magical, fluid, nonchalant way he takes off my anklet and I mentally admonish myself and not self combust

The question about what turns him on has long since been forgotten it seems. He has been in deep thought ever since.

And then suddenly he looks up from my feet and asks me in a slow drawl if I would take a long walk with him.

And then I know.

Him.

He could see her walking by the door’s thin slit…every time a faint cloud of her fragrance seeped in and filled the silence of the room a little more, making the room a little warmer 

His smoke curled in the air and evoked the fluidity of her hair whenever they made love and her tresses hung off her shoulders…
 
The translucence of the smoke was as sheer as the strands hiding her nipples.
 
She walked in and his fingers tapped in the rhythm of her anklets while he waited. She asked something but it went unheard. She never went unnoticed. Language and any other sense surrendered to the power of sight when she was being seen.
He chuckled, hoping it was an appropriate response and remembered the last night when he had woken up to get a glass of water and saw her sleeping naked, her thighs flowing into the silken sheets seamlessly. 
 
He had stood there, thirstier than ever, the room still faintly aromatic with her musk. 
 
He looked at her sitting now, extending her ankle, resting it on his thigh and he took off her anklet…it was sheer torture not to slide his hands up to her calves and in between her thighs. 
 
He always loved the way she tasted after he smoked. A small note of sweet, a palette of warm mild flavor mixing with the bitter of nicotine. 
 
He couldn’t resist further and got up and took her hand to take her to a walk…but turned and pulled her into the room and on the bed…and the lips were now set loose on the journey towards her, into her…
(Written in an accidental collaboration with @Urban_Sanyaasi. made me melt a little. you can read more of his writing on http://urbansanyaasi.wordpress.com/)
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