"What do you think about most, when you look back at it?" the Muse asked me.
I thought a moment. "I think about the way the small of her back looked. How it dimpled, and how my fingers fit into that dimple like it was a delicate bowl. I think about how her skin felt, soft and firm at the same time, smooth yet textured. I think about how pale she was, and how she curved under my hands like a snow drift. I think about how her neck looked with her hair parting along either side of it like a dark waterfall. I think about how the muscles in her shoulders tensed when she pressed her palms against the wall. I think about how low her voice got when she started repeating my name over and over. I think about how she would push back against me near the end and not let me stop moving, never let me stop. I think about how she would hold her breath, pull it in, capture it, and then let it out with a soft, barely-audible moan, just for me to hear. I think about how she would look at me once we were done, and what promises I could see reflected in her dark eyes."