I look up from my notebook, up at the cursor on my screen, then over, over to the thin stemmed wine glass.
Moisture blankets the base all the way up to the tip of what could touch your tongue, the edge of the beginning.
Beginning now, my left hand descends deliberately down the left side of my body, slow, sensual, pausing at the hip where my fingers spread, gripping hard enough to fully feel me.
Me and my routine have been distant strangers lately. It’s been more than 21 days, I’ve lost touch with the art of dancing on the edge.
I became accustomed to quick and quiet out of necessity and now instant gratification has made a mess of me… me and my bedsheets.