Modesty

Her body, folded by her sitting posture, allured the unconscious beast in my shadow. Catching myself stare at the seams of her layered clothing, noticing how I sought to pierce through them in my imagination, I averted my attention to the painting on the left. “That painting is less interesting,” I announced, not knowing if I agreed.

“Anything that can be criticized must have done something right,” she said. “Look. The brush strokes follow the path of the wind.”

“Do they?” I could not tell from where I was, and wished not to get up and be farther in flesh from the fascinating female.