“The Curve of a Question”

I wasn’t looking —

just cooling down,

lungs like slow drums

as the sweat told stories

I wasn’t ready to tell.

And there she was —

running nowhere and everywhere,

hips swaying like pendulums

marking time I’d forgotten how to feel.

I sat off to the side —

because respect matters

even when temptation doesn’t.

But her voice —

soft, sly, curious —

cut through the hum of treadmills.

“Why not in front?” she asked,

like the question wasn’t loaded with lightning.

I answered honestly.

She answered boldly.

“What if I want you to?”

God.

Her eyes — behind the frames

like secrets tucked in novels.

Her lips — full of mischief and velvet.

Her body — drawn in curves

that make artists weep and writers sin.

She didn’t just walk in the room —

she rearranged gravity.

And for a moment,

just one moment,

the ache in me quieted.

Not healed.

Not erased.

But silenced —

by a woman who asked a question

and left the answer

dangling in the space

between what was and what could be.

Later…

The sauna whispered in misty breath,

heat curling around our skin

like it knew something we didn’t.

“You always come this early?” she asked,

stretching, glistening,

eyes locked but smiling.

“Not always,” I said,

“but I’m thinking I might now.”

We laughed — that nervous, playful kind

that means this is going somewhere.

She handed me her phone,

fingers brushing.

I typed in my number,

heart pounding like it forgot how to lie.

Later, the photos came —

mirror, black dress, heels biting the floor,

confidence dripping like honey.

And yeah…

my pulse had something to say about that.

Sometimes, it’s not the kiss

or the touch

or the flirtation —

It’s the moment

you realize

you’re still wanted.

And maybe,

just maybe,

you’re still alive.