The Widow

The sheets were crumpled and warm. It was light outside, but just enough to make out the shape of the table across the room from her. She sighed and brushed her hair out of her eyes, turned her head and looked at him as he lay fast asleep.She breathed in deep as her eyes raked the contours of his body, his arm thrown over his head, wandering over the muscles on his back. She reached out and lightly traced them, careful not to wake him up. He shifted slightly, but did not wake up.
She carefully disentangled herself from the sheets and saw flashes of the previous night as she searched for her clothes, trying not to bump into anything. But these flashes were a jumble of lights and shadows, of silk, of heels, of different scents, of softness, of heat and cold. They made her heady.
As she stepped out of the room, she looked back at the rugged young face. She was sure she would only remember the eyes in a couple of days and the memory of them too would fade, just like all the others. And then, she was gone, not even the whiff of her perfume left behind.
She was going back to her normal life; this being one of the many times she detoured to answer her urges. She thought of all the others before him, and smiled.
A black satin ribbon was tied on his wrist. He looked peaceful. He was found the next morning.