Her Very Own World

I remember the way she walked through her days as though the world was there just for her. It was not arrogant or condescending, though, she did not look upon the world as her toy or plaything, or something she could wave away or dismiss with one imperious gesture.

No, she looked upon the world as though it was exposing its wonders to her, just for her. She seems entranced by each day and all that it could offer. She found each day there at the foot of her bed like some luxuriously wrapped birthday present she was eager to open.

I too became one of those presents she unwrapped, sitting cross-legged on her bed as the afternoon sun lit up her room and the summer breeze teased her curtains. I lay there, next to her, on her bed as she looked down at me, holding her long black hair out of her eyes with one hand as she kissed me. She kissed me as though she half-expected me to turn into some handsome prince who would take her by the hand to some kingdom even more magical than this world that seemed only to exist for her.

She took hold of my old leather belt as though it was the ribbon on one of those presents the world left for her to open each day, and she pulled it open. Then she opened my trousers and found that she did – indeed – have something new to play with.