She slept soundly; I observed the randomness of how our clothes fell- Her sexy underwear and bra, Our socks shoes, how the vino spilled. Like a Lebanese or Greek woman can read the bottom of a coffee cup after the contents have been voided, I realized that our belongings told a story as well, not of future or past blazes, but of current midnights of fire. In the parlance of Boccaccio-"The greatest poets chose how the sacred fire of Venus may be made to burn in the coldest of breasts."
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