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Chin on my hand, I looked out of the window. And reminisced.

If she were here, she would be up and pattering about in our little kitchenette. The warm, mingling fragrances of Johnson’s baby powder and English roses following her from our bed to where she would be, whisking eggs at the counter.

It’s funny how tiny details become such a major part of your daily life.

Take the laundry bin for instance. Seeing her wispy lingerie and floral sundresses tangled up in my briefs and office shirts always made my stomach clench. The subdued colors she preferred wearing would clash with the comparatively bold stripes and hues I loved.

Our tastes were different, to say the least.

She would never guzzle a drink or burp out loud. The sounds lovers and couples unconsciously emitted in front of each other, were ever absent and never missed in the life we had together.

Except in the bed we shared.

She transformed into a creature from my wildest dreams there. Her gasps and pants would rise in volume as my strokes increased their urgency. She would arch like some slender nymph with the lightest touch of my fingertips on her clit. She would clutch at me with a cruel fury when I took her nipples in my mouth. Her nails would leave angry marks on my body and would feel good even after a few days more.

For a woman who looked like a porcelain doll and recited Hawk Roosting in the most wonderfully lilting voice (transforming the latter to something pleasant to the ear), she was a hell-cat when it came to making love.

I don’t know if it was me, her or the act itself, but I wish she was still warming mine and not another’s bed.