No one walks up a flight of stairs like she can. Each supple foot landing delicately on each step with no effort. She rises like she’s being lifted by a cloud to the next step.
Her hip moves with a sway. Slow, deep. My eyes follow the flow.
Like a deep breath, her hip rises and causes my heart to beat harder.
One step at a time. Slowly. Artfully. Creatively drawing my eyes to each movement. Each note of her symphony. Every fold of fabric gliding across her delicate skin.
I could watch forever.
It’s over. She’s reached the top. She turned to see where I’m at and I’m still at the bottom.
She caught me staring.
But it’s okay. We’ve been married 15 years, together for 22.
And I run up the stairs into her arms.