Silent Night

It’s Christmas Eve, and we’re at the house she grew up in, after driving hours from campus where we met. She was a bright eyed freshman, and I a clumsy teaching assistant.

She knew I’d be alone for the holiday, and I could hardly believe when she invited me home with her.  “No one should be alone at Christmas.”

I’m in her old bedroom,
the pink ruffled bedspread still in place,
posters of her favorite rock star on the walls, as if she never left.

I can’t find my pajamas in the suitcase,
so I’m shirtless, wearing just the bottoms,
the quiet weight of the night pressing in.

Her parents are already asleep down the hall, having arranged the guest room for their daughter and her childhood room for her friend.
They would never allow us to stay in the same room; she’s just barely nineteen.

She had said her good nights and n left for the  bathroom down the hall.   I expected to soon hear the guest room door open and close with her inside.
Instead, I heard a soft scratch at the door, a quiet creak, and then she creeps quietly into the room, careful not to wake anyone.
Her footsteps are soft on the carpet,
a small thrill in the secrecy.

She stops inside the door,
eyes flicking to me as she closes it so slowly.

I’m still when she moves, sitting on her childhood bed, as if motion might break the spell.

She’s wearing my button-up pajama top,
too big for her,
sleeves swallowing her hands,
the hem skimming places
it wasn’t meant to reach.

The cotton parts just enough
for me to see what she’s offering:
the gentle line of her chest, firm and tight,
small, nubile breasts pressing forward,
pouty with a confidence
that still blushes when it’s seen.

She comes closer, her shy eyes flicking up and away. 
When her fingers find the buttons,
she hesitates.
She opens one, then another, until the top slips easily off her shoulders,
down her body to the floor.

For a moment she covers herself,
palms cupped protectively,
a soft laugh caught in her throat
as if she can’t quite believe
she’s doing this.

Then, slowly,
she lowers her hands.

Her breathing steadies as she keeps going,
nerves visible in the careful way she stands, in how she lets me look.

She looks up and sighs deeply,
biting her lip, as if deciding whether she has the courage to continue.
Her thumbs loop around the thin, lacy waistband of her high-cut panties,
holding the moment as long as she can.

She bends forward and slides them down slowly, caught for a moment at her thighs,
and I feel the room tilt.
Her small nipples tightening, falling downward as she pushes the lace to her ankles and steps out of them.

She doesn’t rush as she stands up straight again.
She lets me see her confidence
arriving in real time.

Along the edges of her panties, she was neatly trimmed, intentional.
But inside those careful lines
dark curls, thick and untamed on top. But where her butterfly wings began, she offered smooth skin,
neatly waxed along each side of the beautiful lips;
the smoothness stretching low between her legs, disappearing into darkness.

The space between her legs
seems to awaken,
not sudden, not loud,
just alive and glistening…blooming where my eyes linger,
I know without touching
that she feels
the anticipation,
the heat of being seen.

She watches my face carefully,
as if measuring what this does to me.
She steps closer, and pulls each knee atop the bed, aside each side of my legs.
She raises a finger to her lips and utters a barely audible, “Shhhh.”
Then presses her finger to my lips.
She whispers again, “Merry Christmas.”