Waiting

Sometimes you would be waiting for me. I would take the world's shortest ferry ride and then up Bathurst Street to Queen. A trolley ride home to our haven just of the corner of Queen and Woodbine would deposit me but metres from you. My footsteps would quicken just as my pulse willing myself to you.

I'd see the light on in the living room and know you had stayed up for me. I would enter as quietly as possible and swing into the shower to wash my day off so I could be fresh for you. You would hear me, of course, and then my expectation would really pique. Would you join me now or make me wash and towel off to come to you?

If it was the former the shower curtain would part and you would join me. We would kiss tenderly laughing at the shower stream pulsing on our faces. Sometimes you were naked, you wonderful body pressing to me and our tight embrace belying our mutual need. Sometimes you wore your stockings and their wet sheen would accentuate your legs.

If it was the latter, I would towel off and my body would show my arousal for you. Walking... no... padding to the living room I would find you, the down comforter lying at the side of the couch. Oh, how you hated to be cold. But you would be there open to me. Sometimes feigning sleep. Sometimes touching yourself for us. Sometimes on your knees.

Whatever fatigue I had would be gone. I always had energy for us. Energy and passion reflected back unto me.