The Perfect Woman

The Perfect Woman


With great display, I marked my place and put my book on the bedside table. I turned out my light.
"My eyes are tired," I said sleepily.
I rolled over and looked at him. He was squeaky clean from his bath and had settled in to read his book. I felt warm inside.
He saw me in his peripheral vision, and replied, "Uh Huh."
He put his left arm around my neck, and with his left hand under my left shoulder rolled me toward him; and I snuggled up against his side. He inclined his head slightly and kissed me lightly on the lips. It was warm but perfunctory.
He went right back to reading his book. I pressed more fully against his mostly bare skin with a slow motion wiggle. He squeezed me a little tighter but continued reading. I put my hand on the soft line of hair above his navel. He put his right hand on mine, anticipating that I might rub the hair up against the grain.
"Let me finish this page," he mumbled.
"How long is that going to be?" I asked as I moved my hand down just a little. Just the slightest hint.
"Okay, just a couple more minutes," he said.
"Diane looked nice, dressed for success in her velvet dress. Didn't she?" I asked.
"She did, but what I really liked was the hat with the feathers," he replied smiling.
"You say nice things about Diane easily enough," I say softly. "Why can't you ever say nice things about me?" I continued… "I bet you wish you were married to Diane." Now he’s got to mount some kind of defense.
"Oh no," he was groaning. He put the open book face down on his chest, rolled his eyes back then gave me a look as close to patience as he could get.
"He still isn't catching on," I thought to my self.
"At least talk. What did you do at work today?" I said, all ears.
"I don't want to relive my work day, and you don't want to hear it," he said.
"I guess not...if you don't want to tell it."
"Well what then?" he asked, still pragmatic but softening slightly.
He is playing dense.
"I want to chat," I said. I gave him my smug smile and a squeeze.
"What do you want to chat about?" he said.
"Say something about me, something nice," I cooed.
He took that in and his eyes began to twinkle in anticipation.
"Oh no you don't," I said. "If you tell me, 'For a fat girl, you don't sweat much', I am going to put my cold feet on you, and I promise that you won't be able to read in bed tonight or for the rest of the week."
His eyes were still sparkling.
"He's going to pay the price," I told myself.
He changed his expression. He was more serious, but gentle.
"I love you," he said.
It was nice. I liked it. But he still wasn't catching on.
"That's nice. I know you do, and I love you too," I said. "But I had in mind for you to say some things about me."
"You want me to say a bunch of mush, right," he said. "The aphrodisiac lies."
"Give it a try. ," I said.
Taken a little aback, he thought a few seconds and said, "Would you like semi-truthful stuff or shall I go straight for the lies?"
"Either would be better than what we're doing right now," I replied. I looked at his face. It was hard on him but he was composing something.
"If I tell out loud what I'm thinking, I'll laugh. And you'll get mad," he said
"Try it," I wheedled.
"You give me an example of something you might be expecting me to say."
"Your own words are best, especially if you're anticipating sex," I said. "But I can get you started."
"How are you going to do that?" he asked
"I want you to think of the perfect woman," I said.
He was thinking. His face was inscrutable. After about ten seconds, he rolled toward me.
"Describe her," I told him gently.
"Small but not petite....small to me.....just right."
"Go on," I said.
"She's a looker. Cute little butt."
"Um, Hm," I say. The line in his forehead is deep. He's thinking.
"Loving big brown eyes. Always alert. Ready for fun, sometimes even mischievous. When you look into her eyes, sometimes the devil is in them. They say “Come with me. Let’s go."
"That's nice," Two sentences. He is on a roll now.
"She always wants you close, makes you feel like you're the center of the universe."
"See. It's not so hard," I am saying.
"Hates to miss any fun, and gets sad if she's left out. When you come in the door she lights up like sunshine itself," he says, and it seems to flow easier now.
"Yes. Keep going." I say to myself.
"And?" I encourage him.
"She doesn't expect much. And she gets so excited with the simplest things."
"Something a little more personal," I coach.
His forehead line deepens again. "She never gets angry. She is guided by a delicate sense...," he says wistfully.
"Sensitivity, sensibility...what?"
"Not too young. A few spots on her skin … that would cover nicely in a fur coat," he is saying. The impish twinkle is back in his eye.
" A white tip on the tail?" I asked. It's our beagle that he has been describing. I attacked him. With cold feet and tickling I have him writhing. I am able to grab his book and throw it on the floor. The bed covers were all off from his thrashing efforts to protect himself from my attack. I was about to push him off the bed.
"I don't think so," he said, after I had pushed him a few inches with my feet and I was almost off the other side from the effort. His counter attack was under way. It got quite personal...and nice.
Then, we were resting dreamily, holding hands.
Still, I was jealous of that damn dog now.
"What was it you said? Center of the universe? Excited with the simplest things? Would cover nicely in a fur coat?" I repeated to him.
“Oh no you don’t,” he anticipated
I raise my closed fist in victory, "Yes! You did say fur coat."