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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