I rinsed my coffee cup in the sink and then went up to the bedroom.
"What," I asked myself, "exactly does he see in you," as I swung the bedroom door shut and looked in the full-length mirror on the back of it.
I started at my hair, thick and a light brunette brown, cut to a short cap over my head, no grey showing, the result of my weekly trip to visit Race, my hairdresser who was so gay you expected him to burst into flame at any instant. I thought it looked pretty good.
My face is oval, and thin, with a high forehead, straight thin nose, wide-set brown eyes, a generous mouth with ivory teeth since I didn't do the bleach thing, and good cheekbones. I've been told, by those whose judgment I trust, that I'm attractive rather than "pretty" or "cute." In the mirror, though, I saw a school ma'arm that might have stepped off the set of an old western. My ears are actually vaguely pointed giving me a sort of elfin look that I tried to enhance when I was going out.
My shoulders are broad. I was an athlete in high school and college, first in gymnastics and later swimming and diving. College had been paid for with an athletic scholarship. My arms are still toned and there's a little nodule on my collar bone, a souvenir of a fall that had cracked it when I was practicing a dismount from the high bar on the uneven parallel bars.
My breasts sagged but I thought still held their shape nicely. I was a late bloomer. I trained so hard, as a gymnast, that puberty was actually delayed. I didn't have my first period until I was 15 and had traded gymnastics for the less demanding swimming and running. Then it was like a blew through a cup size a month until by the time I got my driver's license my bras were 36D. Since then I've put on a few pounds (no, nosy, I'm not going to tell you exactly how many) and inches and for years now I have worn a 38DD.
But I thought they were still shapely. My areolas are slightly oversized. I know. I spent a LOT of time in locker rooms and have seen a lot of my contemporaries naked. About the size of a teacup. My nipples are in scale, a pale tan thumb sticking out. And I failed the pencil test many years ago. I was never pregnant, but gravity always wins in the end.
I still have a waist and my hips flare nicely.
Numbers? Okay. 38-30-40.
My pubic hair is coarse and thick and it's showing the first hints of grey. I suppose Race could take care of that but, well, I'm not THAT vain. My labia are full and, even though I never had children, sort of, well, "dangle" is the word I think. Not a bad-looking pussy, I thought, laying my palms flat on the tops of my thighs and spreading them slightly, that I looked pretty good.
My legs, though, are my worst feature.
I have saddlebags at the tops of my thighs. Not big or grotesque as I've seen in some locker rooms, but they're there. My knees are kind of knobby, a gift from my days as a middle-distance runner, and my calves are downright skinny. They are not good legs.
My feet are long and thin with long toes. I kind of like them.
The inventory complete, I dropped the oversize T-shirt that I wear as sort of a housedress over my head and went back to the living room.
I thought back and, literally could not remember ever waiting for a man to come home before.
But I waited.
And I realized my areolas had tightened into firm cones and my nipples were hard little pebbles.
I smiled.
