Before she answers, she glances at my fingernails. They're clean and trimmed, so she says, "Yes, I would like to come home with you." And I'm glad, because I often take women back to my apartment, but never a lady.
Upstairs, the first thing I notice is her smell. Like clean, folded laundry. Like vanilla and cinnamon baking under her skin. Like a rose garden through muslin curtains. Like white weddings and country Christmases.
I unbutton her shirt, unzip her pants. Her matching underwear is lavender with one yellow rose embroidered on the base of a bra strap, one on the front of her panties. She said she did them herself. Beneath the panties, her hair is short and grows in a triangle like a sliver slice of pie.
She kneads me like dough. Her body bends in ribbon curls, but inside she's stiff as icing sugar. Cold like an undercooked roast.
"I'm sorry," she says, after a long while. "Sometimes when I try to make things perfect I just can't... let go."
I tell her imperfection is my specialty. What can we do to make this less perfect? Here, I know, where are our socks? Put them back on. No, no, you take mine and I'll take yours. Don't you think the little flower border at the top flatters my calves? Thank God you didn't wear pantyhose instead.
Martha Stewart's Marble Cupcakes by CupCakeQueen
Do you consider yourself a perfectionist? How do you know when to say This needs more work or Whatever, this is good enough?