The Teacup
     

Slowly her hand moved
so slowly he had to look
away and then return his gaze
to see that it had moved
at all
towards the tea cup
set alone
solitary
stark white
and steaming
in the center of black
the night-shade cloud of
the ancient table.

He looked again
and away
and back.
Touching, now
her fingers
caressed the handle
inserting
sensuous and hot
three fingers into the smooth
white opening
formed by the handle and cup-side.

She sighed,
languid,
in the late night.
Her breath
mingled with the
Malty Assam of the tea
and he watched
as hot now, she
felt the side of the cup
throbbing
against the backs
of her three fingers
and her breath came faster as
her fingers closed around
the handle.

His eyes riveted on her knuckles
now themselves white
as the cool night air
ran over the window sill.

Note:
Writing, watching ABJW & her german girl friend 1/94

Daniel Friedman's Poetry & Short Stories
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