by Michael Fontana
Each day you see her, the lesson learned is love. Her gray hair cut into a bob, one eye blue and the other hazel, her pale skin up to the neck in sweater, down to the feet in jeans. You remember every inch of her, your first love after all.
Back then you were both seventeen and now brush fifty, but her flesh is still immaculate, even tested by cancer and birth and the hazards of years. Her breasts remain full and budding; hell, even fuller now, the weight richer and even more desirable. The sweet entrance to her core still beckons you by night; it still opens and flowers, it still rains with her arousal. You tasted it at seventeen and it remains just as sweet today.
She is shyer now. She giggles when touched as if a joke on her. “I’m too old for these games,” she says but she is lying, both to you and to herself. She knows she is alive with love. She knows her skin is full of kindling struck to light by a single wanted touch. She knows that even dressed in powder and a dapple of perfume there is something primal to her scent.
You kiss the arch of her foot and she giggles. You kiss each toe. You kiss her kneecaps. You kiss all these awkward places no one much ascribes to desire but you know they send her into flitters. Her ears especially, with just a single breath inside them, cause her to arch her back and gasp.
Then the full lips, pink with lipstick, more fully reddened beneath with ardor. You kiss her mouth and she kisses back; her tongue lightly taps against the tip of yours. Her eyes widen, her eyes close. You pull up the sweater, she pulls down the jeans. Together you both lay naked.
She is Creation; it all inhabits her. She is as divine as the first spark that summoned life.
Michael Fontana lives and writes in beautiful Bella Vista, Arkansas. Recent erotica publications include Vine Leaves Literary Journal and forthcoming in Temptation Magazine.
You can follow him on Twitter @mfontanawrite.