Expectations

She runs a bubble bath, and she waits for the bath to fill to a pleasing level.

She soaks and she sighs, and she closes her eyes. And she waits for her skin to soften, for anticipation to build. Which it does, beginning in her stomach, then her chest, then her mind.

She washes and douses her body with a soft sponge, and she waits to feel clean enough. To feel ready.

She moisturises and nourishes her skin, waiting until everything feels hydrated enough.

She looks through outfits, until she finds the perfect combination of comfortable, flirty, and easy to remove. She waits until her breathing slows. She tries to stop thinking about his blue eyes. Eyes so narrow, but always smiling.

She gets in her car, and she drives. She waits at every red light, at every junction. The whole world feels like a conspiracy designed to stop her from reaching him. She starts to feel hot.

She reaches the final turning before his house, and she tries to will her heart rate to slow. She blows out air between her lips, realising how dry they are, how nervous she feels.

She pictures his slow smile, remembers the feel of his lips pressing urgently on hers. She licks her lips. This is why they are dry.

She parks outside his house, her blue car pulling up neatly behind his red one. She sees the porch light come on, sees his silhouette appear behind the stained glass of the front door. Her breathing quickens. She gets out of the car, dropping her keys. She bends to pick them up with trembling hands, feeling like an idiot.

She hears his shoes on the gravel, and as she straightens, feels his arm around her shoulder. She melts into a full embrace, and waits for him to take her inside. Waits for him to show her heaven.