THE SILK BLOUSE
Cheryl A. Townsend
He saw it as soon as he walked through the doors. A blouse. Facing the aisle that led to his reason for being there. That blouse. It made him forget his reason. It made him remember her. She wore a blouse just like it last night. He started thinking about last night as he stood in the aisle. He was staring at the blouse. It was staring back. With her eyes. With her hair down on it. With her laughter filling it. He touched it. Felt the softness of the silk. Felt the softness he knew was hers. He imagined touching her. He wished he had. He was smiling at the blouse, standing in the aisle. His hand rubbing the material. Smiling. He felt as intoxicated with the memory as he did when she was there. When she sat across from him. Drinking coffee and eating lemon cheesecake. She swore it was the best lemon cheesecake she had ever eaten. It was the way she slid that fork full of cheesecake in. She just held it there. Like a wine taster would their wine. She savored it. Closing her eyes. Kittenly content. He was enthralled at watching her. It was so innocent. So sexual. He wanted to touch her. Touch her arm. Her cheek. Just to touch her. Just to feel a piece of that euphoria. To share something so sweetly decadent. To share her. He watched her. He felt a strange longing he had never experienced before. Feeling so at ease in this simple delight they were, somehow, sharing. Realizing he had never been so intimate with a woman as then. Marveling at how naive she was at the effect of her abandonment. Her enjoyment. The silkiness of the blouse felt like the smoothness of the cheesecake. He fantasized hand feeding it to her. How his fingers would feel in her mouth. His finger with all the creamy cheesecake. That warm, soft, delightfully moist cheesecake. Her eyes closed. Enjoying it. His finger. Cheesecake. Her mouth.
“Is there something I can help you with, Sir?”
He was standing in the aisle. He had an erection. He was fondling a blouse. He was caught.
He couldn’t wait to tell her.
