She got up from the bed and walked into the closet. Her movements were flowing , like sear fabric drapes on one of those worm summer evenings. She searched the shelves with first with her eyes, then started digging with her right hand.
"Now where did I put them?" she said, not realizing that she actually
spoke the words.
"Need some help?" he called from the bedroom, knowing full well he
had not idea of her closet organization, but looking for an excuse to get next to
her. He did not need an excuse, but he was still in the altered state he goes into
each time he sees her move.
He got up from the bed and wondered into the closet. She was standing with one
hand up high on a shelf divider, and the other hand deep into the contents of a shelf.
From his angle, with her back towards him and the light striking her white skin,
the memory of a white marble statue flashed in his mind. Was it Michael Angelo, or
Rodan, he thought. That statue. Fine white marble. Polished smooth. Those sensual
curves that the artist and placed into the statue for all time and countless people
to see and touch. Oh that sensation of touch. Smooth as silk, the vibration of the
stone which comes through. The feeling of the emotions that the artist has permanently
etched into the statue.
He hesitated, then placed his hand on the side of her back, just above where
her wondrous hips started. Her skin was like the statue, smooth, electric, but warm.
He let his hand drift around her side to her stomach. His touch was light, with a
hint of electricity. He drew himself up against her, as his other hand found her
back and lightly drifted around her shoulder blade, and stopped just underneath her
breast. The light fine hair on his forearm, just barely brushed the curve where the
underneath part of her breast meets her nipple. Her eyes closed and her lips parted
just slightly. He could feel her body move.
"Am I helping?" he whispered into her ear.
"Uh...Uh..." was all she could say at first. Then in a low throaty
voice, "Oh, Yes. You are definitely helping" came out of her mouth, as
his right hand slowly and gently slid down her stomach and he kissed the hair line
on the back of her neck.
To him touching her was like touching art become flesh. Touching what one thought was untouchable. Something reverent and spiritual. You wanted not to stop. To go slow as to saver each passing second. To make time stand still. In fact for him time did seem to stand still. The sensation on his fingertips was constantly changing, yet familiar. As he move so did she. As if her body and soul danced to the rhythm of his hands, or did his hands dance to her body. It is as if they were one. One in spirit, not just body. Not just one, but actually occupying the same space and time.