When she wakes, she pushes herself onto her hands, arching, head hanging back, breasts to to the sky, hair slithering down her neck, grazing her spine. She loves the feeling, the silky strands tickling her, teasing.
She stretches, Siamese slow, and sighs a lazy, potent sigh. Then she lays back, limbs pulled tight and straight, twirling around each other like the Hippocratic oath. Through the slits of her eyes, she can see the milky mounds of her ribcage rise and fall with each rolling breath. Inhalations grow deeper and louder. The room grows darker though the day is getting stronger somewhere outside, somewhere beyond the weak shutters and this haven of mattress and sheets. Of pillows with many uses.
There is an Argentinian guitar snaking its way inside her head. A beat that is hers and hers alone that she might sing to someone one day. She cuts horizontal figure eights with her body. She is dancing by herself.
She brings her arms down, a ballerina ending her bedroom pirouette, and smiles a languid wave of a smile. She wishes she could wake up like a woman every day.