I miss that black sweater you used to wear. I think you called it a cardigan or something. I’m not good with fashion and I don’t know all of the specific names of all the little pieces of clothing, but I loved that black sweater. You wore it perfectly.
It would hug your sides. It showed off how amazing your hips are, the way they hour glassed down your frame. Every button would be fastened from top to bottom and it would squeeze around your waist closer than anything else in the world. That sweater was perfect. I miss it so much.
The fabric was so soft. It wasn’t new or anything but it was soft. I loved unbuttoning it slowly. Do you remember the way I used to fiddle with each of the buttons when I was undoing it? Looping it in and out as I circled my thumb around before finally letting it go. There were six buttons. I remember because I would sometimes count them out loud as they finally slipped free of my fingers.
I remember the last time I saw that sweater too. You’re the reason it’s gone. You decided to surprise me. I stopped into your place on the way home from work. It was late and I called you and asked if you were awake. You said, “barely.”
“I’m coming in.”
“I’ll be asleep,” you said.
You weren’t in bed though. I went into your room and didn’t see you until you came out of the bathroom. All you were wearing was a pink thong and that soft black sweater with the six buttons. The V-neck cardigan that sloped down your chest and hugged your body the way I liked to at night. The piece of clothing that pressed up right underneath your breasts and seemed to hold up your cleavage and dare me to dive into them.
I ripped that black sweater off of you. I didn’t bother with the buttons. I didn’t bother with the fabric. I just ripped it off of you. I picked you up and carried you to the bed and we had some of the best sex we’ve ever had.
I really miss that black sweater.