Saturday Morning Dreaming

From downstairs, the noise appears again. I listen for the footsteps leading on the stairs to my sixth floor walk up. Seeing the doorknob turn ever so slightly, will he assume I am sleeping, and let himself in?  I am too well heeled to get up and let him in, so I close my eyes, and wait for the turning of the doorknob. The door begins to open, and conversely I once again, replay scenes in my head, of the wine, the bar, the sex, the meeting in Paris where we established both the familiar and the unfamiliar of one another. I ordered the fish cooked in garlic, he ate from my fork. Already I had decided then, to go beyond the first page with him. Now here I am, in my sixth floor walk up, waiting for the doorknob to open, for the turning of yet another page in our story. It will begin with wine, and end in sweat, and his fingers will trace the outline of my face. A portrait in time.  In the morning, I will sigh, and he will leave to catch the metro. I will drink coffee, running my hands down along my body, covered in vibrations of seated emotion, and he will smile politely at everyone he passes along the street. Eventually, we will make promises.......