She was wearing a black dress.
Dark, soft, sensuous.
The same coal black hair flowing down her neck, her egg-shaped face.
And a blush on her face as she sat beside me.


"Anna Sui. Night of Fancy," I said.

"Yea," she replied.

A rather sheepish reply. And she looked embarassed for a moment. (I gave it to her before we parted.) But quickly she regained her composure.

She scorned, "And you. Still smelling like ashtray."

"And Versace," I added.

She smiled. And so did I.


She was wearing the black dress.
Dark, soft, sensuous.
The dress that I took my time taking off.
My fingers walked the contours of her body, explored the new geography, and unhooked the pearly round buttons behind.
The same coal black hair that my fingers ran through, the neck that I breathed hard on and the egg-shaped face that I pecked.
And a blush on her face as she lay beside me.