There was something about the way she would get into your bed so naturally, even for the first times. The way you would find her there, just sitting: bed clothes open, no cerimony, amounted to your side of the bed - her weight carried out by her straight linear arms stretched behind her back, and the right leg stretched long across both sides of the bed, unmitigated by the foot: the foot - you don't know what was most unsettling, if the way she analytically switched it from one profile to the other or the provocative unvoluntary gaze on her face while she took on that chore. She would say "I really need to cut my toe nails..." and your reaction wasn't clear to her: if it was a muddling state of receiver or just another unexpected reflex or even an accepting silence under disguise - still, she would just lay there, oh so naturally, with her head burried on her left shoulder, like a child, like there was nothing to it, like you discussed this kind of subject every time, over every awkward cigarrete you've ever had, just in between the "how's it going?" or the "a lot of work, ahm?" - she would just force herself comfortable in such a carefree way, that's just what she did.
© Ea Vasko
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