comme des enfants

You see, she was pulling up these beige coloured stockings over her stocky knees in the blunt light of the midday and it was falling directly on her calves, colouring them like athletes have.  A phone rang in the other room, maybe the kitchen, while her fingers were tracing the little hairs on her leg up to her thighs like a crisscrossed, missmatched highway of skin.  She was lost in the silkiness of the fabric, or nylon, or plastic or whatever it was she was stretching over these limbs of hers.  It was like butter, but better.

She looked up over her left shoulder when she heard a zipper and a belt buckle jangling near where the phone continued its neverending ring.  Her hair caught itself on the muscles of her back and she straightened from being bent at the middle and caught a glance of herself in the dark mirror.  She liked this darker colour to her hair that she recently put in.  It suited her dark eyes and she liked having the camouflage available in case the opportunity ever came.  Plus, red lipstick was a solid fight with her eyes now, not just an overpowering lover.

“Salaam, chetori baba?”

Murmur, she remembered a book by Munsch or someone that has something to do with murmuring, how silky it was. Murmur murmur.



Gripe here!

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