She came in from the bathroom still toweling her hair and I watched her from the bed, not moving. We weren't in a hurry yet. The slow frame of the night was just beginning. She hung the towel and crossed the room, and every step was a small beat in something rising. She sat on the edge of the mattress, picked up the lotion, warmed it between her palms — and she knew I was watching, and she took her time with it, because she knew exactly what it was doing to me. I held still. I wanted every second of this stretched. When she got under the covers and turned toward me I didn't reach for her right away. I just looked at her, and she looked back, and the lamp was still on, and we both knew what was about to happen, and that knowing was the best part.
