how he makes love
"A woman doesn't care how he makes his living, only how he makes love," she said.
She uttered these types of phrases all the time, like they were eternal truths or the final word on any topic. Maybe I should say, they were pronouncements.
She was unstoppable. She lived each day to the fullest, like it mattered. She lived each day like it was her last. Squeezing every bit of it out, like juice from an orange, even the pulp, like she did in the kitchen every morning (that we had oranges). "The pulp improves antioxidant status and suppresses lipid peroxidation," she declared, (as if I understood or even cared). LoL.
"That's not what most women say. They want men with a bank account, " I answered.
She sighed. Turning to look me in the eye, she said, "A woman cares how he lives his love more than how he makes a living. How each day, each movement, each word is making love--making love--to her. The way he says hello or goodbye or opens the door or picks up after himself. How he even picks up after her. All this is making love."
"What about the romance, dear? The flowers and such?" I teased her.
"The kisses, the roses, the cards," she sang, "the love letters all are part of romance, part of making love...but, the love, love-making, is more than that."
"The love is like a dance," she declared, in a rhythm now. No stopping her train of thought.
"Anticipating the lover's moves, where the hands will be, the feet, the hips. Like the way Johnny taught Baby how to dance in the movie Dirty Dancing. Knowing where the other will be, how the other person moves through life. That is love, how love is, feeling each movement of the day whether away from or near to the lover. The lover is in the mind, in the heart, in the daily doing of things. That is making love."
"Okay," I said.
She just laughed, as I kissed her.
She was unstoppable. She lived each day to the fullest, like it mattered. She lived each day like it was her last. Squeezing every bit of it out, like juice from an orange, even the pulp, like she did in the kitchen every morning (that we had oranges). "The pulp improves antioxidant status and suppresses lipid peroxidation," she declared, (as if I understood or even cared). LoL.
"That's not what most women say. They want men with a bank account, " I answered.
She sighed. Turning to look me in the eye, she said, "A woman cares how he lives his love more than how he makes a living. How each day, each movement, each word is making love--making love--to her. The way he says hello or goodbye or opens the door or picks up after himself. How he even picks up after her. All this is making love."
"What about the romance, dear? The flowers and such?" I teased her.
"The kisses, the roses, the cards," she sang, "the love letters all are part of romance, part of making love...but, the love, love-making, is more than that."
"The love is like a dance," she declared, in a rhythm now. No stopping her train of thought.
"Anticipating the lover's moves, where the hands will be, the feet, the hips. Like the way Johnny taught Baby how to dance in the movie Dirty Dancing. Knowing where the other will be, how the other person moves through life. That is love, how love is, feeling each movement of the day whether away from or near to the lover. The lover is in the mind, in the heart, in the daily doing of things. That is making love."
"Okay," I said.
She just laughed, as I kissed her.
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