Current mood:
thoughtful 
She fled the restaurant where the board of directors meeting had gone on far too long. All night she'd been sneaking looks at her phone. Text messages had been teasing her all evening. He was waiting. He was waiting for her.
She pulled into the driveway, already anticipating being in his arms again. The house was dark. She turned the knob. It gave way. The portal opened revealing flickering candlelight coming from the bedroom. She heard him begin to play his guitar, she sighed. She slowly slipped her pumps off her feet, her jacket from her shoulders, and her skirt down her hips. She rounded the corner to his bedroom in simply her tank top and panties. Simple. His. She went to him. He played for her. The notes thumping through her body. When she was lulled into comfort he set the instrument aside and reached for her. She went to him, willingly, achingly.
The intense passion that followed was something she'd never experienced before. When she got up to leave she saw the candles had burned low. In the low light she could just make out black smudges on the wall just above where the pillows lay on the bed. Puzzled, she looked at her hands. Her palms were smeared with mascara. She hadn't even noticed.
She drove home in the late, dark night, distracted. Thinking of him. Thinking of their chemistry they had together. And, laughing, wondering if he would ever get the mascara off his wall, or if he'd leave it there. She knew everytime she looked at that spot on the wall she'd smile and remember.
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