She had come to his plantation-shuttered door in the apartment building and knocked. He saw her bare legs and feet first. Green toe polish. Pretty muscled legs. Tanned. He flipped the latch and pushed open the door.
“Hey,” she said, smiling, looking sleepy about the eyes. She was wearing cutoff jeans and a tee shirt with a big slice of red watermelon on her chest, “Juicy and Sweet” it read. “I was just wondering what you know about brass beds?” she said and her tongue rested on her beautifully plump lower lip.
“Nothing but what Bob Dylan said in his song…lay Lady lay…” he said and smiled.
She blushed, and then managed a nervous laugh.
“Listen, wanna glass of iced tea?” he said. “We can sit in the living room and talk about it.”
She chewed her lip. “Well…” she said, folding her toes on one foot against the welcome mat. She had beautiful blue eyes and a full moon face, dimples in her cheeks, a little nose, and a mane of thick blonde hair and best of all a little scar, an extra dimple in her meditation third eye. “Well…I guess so…” she decided.
And he swung the door wide for her and felt her body heat sweep past him, a hint of jungle orchid perfume. And brass bed or no…they went deep into bed talk that long, lazy summer afternoon and no one the wiser.