THE SANCTUARY

My eyes take in the condo
with a quick scan, and while not large,
it isn’t cramped, either. Just the right proportions,
much like her: no wasted space, and lines that flow
in perfect symmetry, like classic art.

The décor is Pottery Barn meets Ikea.
Nothing ornate, but hip and efficient.
Satiny throw pillows sprawl across the couch;
her beige sweater hangs  lazily over the arm of a chair;
a laptop computer corrals the corner of  the coffee table,
an empty water bottle standing guard beside it. Underneath
the dining room table a sleek black cat glares warily at me.

She tells me to make myself comfortable
while she disappears into the bathroom.
I stand in the living room
to take it all in: the laminate floors
with the Indian throw rug dominating
the center of the room; whimsical art
decorating the walls; flip-flops tucked in a corner
next to the front door; a 50 inch flat screen.

This is all her and I am overwhelmed
with a sense of intimacy that we have yet to share.
No nakedness. No sex. No scent of her body.
Yet surveying the interior makes me feel as if
I’ve entered into the most private regions of her being.
Herein lies the nakedness of her psyche closed
to the rest of the world except for the chosen few
allowed to gain admittance.

My fingers skim the fabric of the couch
and I can feel her flawless skin. I inhale the
faint vanilla fragrance of a potpourri candle
and am engulfed by her essence.

And when she reappears in the living room
 I feel a new connection to her, an intimacy
that didn’t exist moments ago.
And when she greets me with a smile,
it is like making love without ever touching