An hour later they were sitting naked on Carla’s bed, eating peanut butter out of the jar with spoons, and blackberries from a big plastic bowl. McKinney scooped up a blob of peanut butter and topped it with a berry. He decided it was delicious in the same way as a marshmallow toasted over a campfire. It was the occasion that made it so. He stuck the spoon back in the jar, then laced his fingers behind his head and lay back on the pillows. The setting sun filled the room with a pale, orange light. A half dozen unfinished statues threw indigo shadows across the room as they encircled the bed like a silent Greek chorus.
“These are my muses,” Carla said. She pointed to the nearest statue and worked her way around the room. “This is Melina Mercouri, Rosa Parks, Frieda Kahlo, Mary Cassatt, Simone de Beauvoir and, of course, Mrs. Emma Peel. They’ve all helped me out when I was feeling puny or uninspired.”
McKinney placed his hand on Carla’s waist. Of all the bits of anatomy that are unique to a woman, this curve was McKinney’s favorite. The gentle geometry of waist blossoming into hips felt like the place that nature had always intended his hand to rest. He looked up and saw Carla watching him. “This is nice,” he said.
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