So many 26ths, one, recalled in moonlit garden, with champagne, kisses, hot, then hotter. Fingers searching, finding. Clothing trailed from patio to stairs, we never reached bed.
Another 26th, we danced until 2.00 am. In bed at last, I gasped, “Sleep or love?”
“Whichever comes first,” Should a quickie be that good?
July 26th is here, a sixty-second time, fingers trace dry labia. “Optimist,” she murmurs, reaching down, she sighs, “You’re firmer than expected. Want me to—”
“You’ve only got three seconds,” I reply, with fake regret. Head to head, giggling like naughty schoolkids, we relive our most sensuous anniversaries.
