I slid my hand down the railing as I walked down the carpeted stairs. It was smooth and cool under my fingertips. Leaving his bed wasn’t something I ever wanted to do. And this evening was no different. He had a way of satisfying me, really satisfying me. He was the first man I never had to fake it for. It wasn’t until I met him that I realized sex could be poetry if you had the right partner. My silk robe was soft against my skin, and as I reached the bottom of the stairs I stopped. He was in the kitchen, making eggs. It was midnight. I watched him scramble them and caught sight of his hands. The hands that touched me. The hands that would touch me again if I was lucky. The hands that fit in the back pockets of my jeans so well on a crisp Sunday autumn stroll.