Her ample chest heaved two quick short bursts, her nostrils flaring in defiance. This is it, she thought. Manicured fingers moved feverishly over the short dense strands of the white berber carpet; then slowed to a soft rhythmic caress. She could feel the sinewy muscles of her lover beneath her palms, comforting like midnight under Nairobi skies. Sorrow overcame her as the air from her lungs made a final escape through her glossy lips. Two tears began their journey down her cheeks. This is it, she thought.
One of these days I will write a romance, what do you say? Right now, I'm deep in a piece (working with an editor) for a literary magazine, not a romance; but I'd like to distract myself and continue with this, and see where it leads.
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