I like to write a quiet room. A simple square room with yellow walls. A wooden table and chair. The old oak chair creeks and pops perfectly when I sit in it but never threatens to faulter. There’s a little radio on the table. One speaker and a long silver antenna. Real real low down a slow pop song is scratching through the fuzz. It makes me smile. Weights the moment. Takes me back. There she is. I take her hand. Our fingers are loosely laced. We sway. There in the yellow room.
Not done with me, she pops every button to my trousers. Slowly with two hands. Sliding the shirt from my shoulders. Fingers lightly tickling down my sides. With a zip and a tug I am nude. Her kneeling before me. Breathing hot upon me. Turgid, I touch her lips. She licks. One long excruciating spiral, then rises. Her simple dress falls. My tongue sucking her points. She moans, pulling my mouth onto hers. Sucking all of the juice she can draw from my tongue. I spread her on the table. Her hot slicked flesh pulsing in my mouth. The old oak chair groans. Then finds a delighted rhythmic squeak. We peak. Breathless, I am alone in the yellow room. Her scent still fresh.