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By Willie James King From an opened window, and wind-shifting curtains, a woman watches a man at work, shirtless, muscles lengthening, tightening like leather, the color of copper where beads of sweat limns his sunlit skin, like a fused flux of emeralds, enamored sequins aglow on the body of a newly-shed snake. She hears the hiss of his shears as they shave a row of hedge he is trying to trim to the same height; he's hired help, she doesn't even know his name, nor does she care to learn it, She'd never call it, this decent lady who would be known as nothing less. No matter, she's captured by his chest, the only part she is able to see from the lilt and turn of the trunk of his narrow waist. But that is all she needs to see while she wonders to herself what it would be like if they were alone, coupling beneath the canopy of a huge bed she hates sharing with the husband she has known too long now, who's not hers; scent of apples from a nearby orchard fragrances the air, and she pretends it is their scents, mingling as she turns britches she's ironing, wishing she had washed for him to wear. |
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Document last modified on: 04/02/2006