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Rain was humming the perfect soundtrack for that afternoon. On the unmade bed, really unmade, the creased sheets uselessly covered their bodies. They weren’t sheets anymore, but a tantalizing invitation to wrap and unwrap lovers’ mutual exploration. In a grey light warmed by the yellowish orange blazes of the fireplace two people were stretching, snuggling and purring like lazy cats yet ebullient was their search of hidden recesses of pleasure. They kissed on their skins the words that their souls spoke. Their hands were tracing the lines of a superior design: love is the greatest artist of all. Fortunately the pale blue wallpaper couldn’t hear or see, thus it couldn’t blush. The angel in the painting shyly watched the window where rain was drawing its watery laces. The old bed was squeaking their passionate assaults; indiscreet bed! It had witnessed so many battles that it couldn’t help  spreading rumours.

Giggles and sly looks, a wide stillness fading into dazzled rapture and then, again the rush, the hunger of a furious, unbounded tangle.

Hours lingered in an expansion of their merging selves, but clock, for them, was only an object hanging on the wall.

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