The Yellow Chair
I have a chair that is excellent for curling up in with a cup of tea. It’s perfect to read a book, or listen to the radio. Except occasionally, when I turn a page or the next song changes, so does my train of thought. When I remember that late summer evening, I remember what my chair is really excellent for.
We are ‘one large glass of red wine after work without eating a proper dinner’ woozy.
I stand over her, and she raises an eyebrow. I think I translate it as ‘Oh, you’re taking charge. This is… unexpected…’, but with the grin that comes with it I can confidently add ‘…and I am absolutely okay with it’. I lean down and kiss her, and trail my hand up her neck into her hair. I forget just how good she smells. I know it’s good, just nothing quite prepares me for how much so.
‘Take off your underwear’, I whisper into her ear. She fumbles underneath her skirt. I could make this easier by giving her more room, but in being here I am so close to her neck, her mouth, with my fingers still in her hair.
I silently lift each of her thighs over each arm of the chair. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t already played this scenario in my head. And I’d be lying further still if I said I had done so only once…