That Pink Blouse

Sometimes, I remember too much. Today, I put on that pink blouse you liked to see me in. You liked it because it was the thing I wore the first time you got the very good idea of unbuttoning it.

And like the intoxicating perfum from a long ago evening of white wine, water glass, knife, spoon, fork, "no dessert please" white linen table cloth, table, underneath it our feet had been out of our shoes, yours conveniently loafers, your sock suggestively stroking me out of my heels, the night was a swoon which I can recall in full detail with pinpoint accuracy, in a flash, by just putting on that blouse.

So, I made the mistake this morning, as I was doing my hair, still damp from the bath ... you always made fun of my love of baths, hate of showers ... I made the mistake of taking that pink blouse out of the back of the closet and it was just as if I had invited you into my boudoir, my skin flushing to recall the heat of you on me, in me, sleeping happily next to me afterwards.

I like to believe that I don't believe in ghosts. But I guess that's not true. You haunt me. You who said you were not the romantic one, not the passionate one, not the one who would fall in love, like a guy falling down a flight of stairs. You did. I did. We did. All thanks to that blouse. I should burn that blouse. But not yet. One of these days.