“I hate sleeping traditionally.” She said tapping her toe on the leg of the bar stool she was sitting on.
He turned his head sideways and quirked an eyebrow. One thick dark brow.
“You know,” she said, running her fingers lightly through the dark messy locks nearest her face. ” Feet at the bottom, head at the top.” she pointed at her toes and head as she said it.
He grinned. “I usually just get in and fall asleep.”
“No, no, no.” She said beaming back, it was intensifying each word she spoke. Dimples in her cheeks, eyes glowing. “You are doing it all wrong.” She sat up a little straighter, then leaned in.”What color are your sheets?”
“White.” He said leaning against the bar. Taking a sip from the tumbler.
“Mine are gold. It’s good they are white.” she said sipping her ale from a sweating glass.
“Why?” he looked befuddled putting the glass aside. She followed tracing one finger through the dampness on the glass after she’d set it down.
“White is tender,” she paused “it’s unsoiled, guiltless it’s… a bare canvas to paint your body strokes against.” Her hand fluttered at that last desc
“Pretty words.” He said.
Six months later he found himself thumbing through his moleskin notebook at first light while she lay asleep anomalous, just like she had confessed to him on their first meeting, in his guiltless bed.
“a bare canvas to paint your body strokes against” was written in scratchy hurried hand. He’d excused himself to write it down and come back for her number. Even now she was bewitching, and as winsome as that first night. He set aside the moleskin in the drawer and pulled out his camera, heedful not to wake her he stood on the bed and snapped a photo as she lay right arm above her head, and bare left shoulder to the elements. One moment captured to mark how her body painted brush strokes in his white sheeted bed, and through the eyes of his camera.