She Shook Her Hips

She’s lying quiet, fallen asleep. The most beautiful woman in the world . . . I get to watching her, sleeping. I watch her closely, the way a lover does. Objectively, looking at every detail. Subjectively: Roundnesses. Not the jutting hip-bones of a young girl. The beautiful full hips and breasts of a woman who has suckled a child in her day. You (reader) have no idea of how beautiful that is (well, maybe you do). Rounded forms.
She lay there, on my couch, and she shook her hips, before she fell asleep, like a belly-dancer. For me. With a little suggestive sigh. She’s wearing a beautiful off-white dress, and I’m crazy for her. She is the most wonderful thing in the world. She sleeps, snoring. I treasure that snore even as I walk in to the other room, to write it down.
My God. She shook her hips for me, for a short time, though she was utterly exhausted. I know she’d do anything for me. She looked at me, smiling, a glance that said everything, and shook her hips.
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Talk

Why in all hell do people talk so much? Can’t they just – now and then, for five damned minutes – shut the fuck up? It’s a party, I come on to the balcony, it’s a beautiful evening, the sun has just set… I thought I was escaping from the gabble inside to look at the sky. But no. Some stupid asshole says what a beautiful sunset, a woman takes up the bloody thread and tells us all about the incredible sunset she saw in Australia… which leads to a description of the hotel there, which is taken up by various people describing their hotels in God knows where all… AAAARGHHH! SHUT! UP! I did not, in fact, scream. I kept myself under absolute urbane control. Meanwhile, without anyone besides me paying attention, the beautiful colors faded away. This is the kind of thing that makes me drink three big glasses of wine in quick succession.
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