Katastrophe incarnate

I’m seated at the kitchen island, toes brushing the floor despite the high stools. My drink is warm still, little curls of steam rising off it, the print of my dark lipstick on the rim. 
  My hair is still damp from my shower this morning, I’ve left it to air dry, the chill raising goosebumps on my arms. It’s not quite warm enough now for the thin cotton dress I’ve put on for now, perhaps I’ll put on a cardigan when I’ve finished this cup. 
   The skirt is brushing my legs, rough against the smooth skin. I cannot wear this out, the light outside turns it sheer. Perhaps with the long cardigan it’ll go unnoticed. 
    The floor is cold under my feet. The room contrasting so well with my warm drink. Sweeter than I usually take it, but he’s anticipated me. I need the sweetness, I need the extra jolt, I need the contrast with the bitter coffee. 
  His hair is soft beneath my hand, the short curls wrapping around my fingers of their own accord. Kneeling at my feet, softly caressing my thighs beneath my skirt. 
  
just some thoughts over coffee