COUCH #17 I've never seen her before, the chick asleep on my couch. Shouldn't surprise me

                                   COUCH #17
    
    
         I've never seen her before, the chick asleep on my couch. 
    Shouldn't surprise me - happens all the time - but this one is 
    incredible. She's six feet if she's an inch and perfect: soft brown 
    hair, full lips, creamy skin, full breasts with erect nipples, softly 
    rounded hips, a navel and a pale blue sheet.  Her feet are curled, 
    wrapped in the sheet.
    
         Her eyes open slowly - green, with long, curled lashes - and she 
    smiles as a stretch ripples down her.
    
         "You're very territorial," she says. "Has anybody ever told you 
    that?" The backs of my knees soften at the sound of her voice, a 
    resonant frequency or something. I smile, vacantly.
    
         "I've never done anything like this before," I lie. I feel a 
    chill, even though the heater's on. I stand there in my boxers, trying 
    not to stare. She stands and the sheet falls to the couch. She scoops 
    it up and throws it over her right shoulder, moves close to me.
    
         "Kiss," she says. I obey. "I fix breakfast is how it works, and 
    we take it from there." She points her chin toward the bedroom and 
    accompanying bath. "I'll be right out," she says, brushing past me. A 
    hand lingers on my chest, brushing my hairs. Running water. What do 
    they do in there?
    
         I try to remember her name, or any detail of the last twenty four 
    hours. The living room isn't any help - if she had clothes, or a 
    purse, when she got here, they must be in the bedroom. The couch is 
    still warm; I imagine heat escaping from the soft indentations she's 
    left behind. The place is clean, orderly, and, miraculously, doesn't 
    reek of smoke and beer farts. Almonds, it smells like. A clean ashtray 
    holds a turquoise book of matches. This isn't my apartment.
    
         She reappears, wearing my favorite shirt and a rubberband in her 
    hair. Schoolgirlish, sort of. I follow her into a kitchen, modern, 
    with a breakfast nook. I sit at the table, where a fresh-lit cigarette 
    - Merit, my brand - is burning in a seashell ashtray. She reaches for 
    a cannister of coffee and my shirt rides up over her hips, exposing 
    her bare bottom. She wiggles it playfully. Filter, water and coffee 
    smells as she extracts pots and pans from under the counter. Bacon.
    
         "Over easy?" I nod, unsure, and she cracks three brown eggs into 
    a skillet. Whole wheat toast, juice - it all hits the table at the 
    same time. She places a fork, knife and napkin to the left of my 
    plate, then sits on my knee, kisses me. My hands rest on her hips, 
    lightly smoothing the soft fabric over her flesh and she turns closer 
    to me, hands interwoven behind my neck. Her eyes are huge. With a 
    sigh, she slips her hands down my shoulders and stands. She opens the 
    refrigerator door and, blowing me a kiss, climbs inside.  The door 
    clicks closed behind her and I stare for a while, wondering. What do 
    they do in there?
    
         I eat slowly, helping myself to a second cup of coffee and 
    rinsing my plate and silverware. Another cigarette appears in the 
    clean ashtray, already lit. I smoke it, resting my feet against the 
    fridge. My favorite shirt. I'll probably never see it again.
    
    
                       Copyright (c) 1988 by Burk Murray
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