Every morning, after he left, I would rush to the window and watch him close the door behind. With my heart still beating out of my chest, I would recount the night again and see the sky blush until she would melt into a sea of sunlight. She was my friend and my confidante, and I loved mornings!
I would wait eagerly for the first rays of the sun to knock on my window sill, and as it seeped through the glass, I would retract my hand coquettishly. I would place my hand on the nook right next to the sill and look the other way until, like an old habit, I could feel the very first rays gently caressing my fingertips while the warmth slithered up my bare arms. I would pause a bit, and then offer the rest of my hand in submission.
The crimson in my veins would rush to the surface to meet the rays dancing on my palms. Almost reassured by the audacity of the unabashed beam, I would let my wrists twirl until soft silhouettes would creep out from the spaces between my fingers. A dangerous dance would ensue between the shadow and the light, and I would feel a deep sense of exhilaration pulsating through my soaked heart. The jealousy of the rays would soon start to leave indecent marks as they touched, pushing me to seek the shadows a little bit more with every burn, and my wrists would pirouette like psychedelic corps de ballet around the principal.
I loved mornings and I loved savoring this little dance in solitude until my husband came home after his night shift. I would see his chest swell in pride every morning as he would see me waiting for him by the window. I would rush to the door, and he would plant a sincere kiss on my forehead.
Men in love are wholesome, and I would not tarnish that by telling him about my harmless dance!