Our bedroom was always modestly decorated. At least in our eyes. Of all the rooms, this one was our first baby. We took special care of it, nurturing it through phases as the outside world and all its fashions changed. But it was always our first attempt that we'll remember with greatest fondness. Back then it was a genie's lamp of trapped lust. It embodied us, tempered us. When we rubbed it, wishes were granted. On our four-poster bed, satin sheets, so deep they were almost purple, spread across the girth. The floorboards were stripped and stained, a varnish protected it and the soles of our ever-bare feet. Soft footsteps, so soft that only in the aftermath of love could they be heard, scuttled from bed to door, door to bed, as we crept up on each other.
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