In my dreams, she is the woman in the night gown that greets
me at the arch door, her hands clutching the candle stick as hot wax drips down
onto her long fingers, her dark hair framing her serious face, the almost evil
twist of her lips, the night gown barely covering the swell of her breasts as
she request me to wait just inside the door, when I am anxious to go all the
way in, the candle already half gone, clutched by trembling hands, she telling
me to wait, not to come inside, not yet as the wax drips, leaving a trail of
tear across her knuckles, not yet, she tells me, but soon, very soon, yet only
if I behave.
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