Ballerina bones
I spent the morning in bed, heaped under a pile of blankets the color of snow. It was an exercise in patience, maybe even tolerance. Wearing nothing but thin négligée embroidered with french knots like a sea of goosebumps over powder white flesh, I buried myself in silky sheets and lay motionless. No squirming to ruffle the covers, causing friction to warm my naked bones. No tucking the covers up under my thighs and knee caps and heels and around the slender arch of my toes to justify the absence of socks. When I breathe my stomach creates a wave in the blankets, I gasp for oxygen like a little fish, coveting the air, sucking it into my teeth like milk through a straw. It takes the blankets a moment to settle back around my cool skin, the fluttering cotton raising goosebumps as it swells against my belly.
The party’s tonight. I should probably be getting ready.
