It’s always summer term when we meet
on the sidewalk outside the library, she invites me
to an impromptu dinner, ‘So we can discuss your writing
without the normal interruptions.’
I drive her the short way home
since her bag hangs heavy on her shoulders
and my car is parked steps from where we stand.
Behind her door we shed our sandals
she opens a bottle of wine
hands me a glass and encourages me to sit.
‘Don’t worry—I remember
you don’t like cheese,’ she jokes
and that she remembers this small bit said in passing
stops me mid-sip. We share a long gaze
until my face flushes and I look away.
A lock of hair falls across my eyes and
the slow motion tumble begins.
We are alone but she shakily whispers it as
she tucks the errant wave behind my ear:
‘I want you in my bed.’
The flush rushes down my neck and
further still when her hand comes to rest
in the V of my shirt.
I can’t meet her eyes so
I settle on the arthritic knuckles of
her other hand that reaches for mine and
pulls me to follow.
It’s easy to follow her
to undress her, let her undress me.
The extra pounds from illness
and inactivity are gone.
My hair is wild and long
instead of medication-thinned.
This daydream doesn’t demand the
energy of real-life fumbling and sexual pursuit.
I am free of real-life’s inflammatory cytokines that
make washing and dressing a burden.
I am wanted.
I grow incandescent
beneath my professor’s gaze.
More alive with the pass of her lips
over my heated skin.
Stronger with each touch.
I map and explore her body
without exhaustion.Amy Millios