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I looked down at my palm now, as I had then, the tiny yellow key looked the same. Harmless, a tiny toy like key that may be able to fit a child's diary.Why would Earl give me a key? Why would he be shy about it? And what the devil did it mean! I tossed it in with the others, and pulled my feet from my boots.I began to go over the keys in my mind. Keys. Earl's Yellow, Flo's pink, Charlie's blue, Elliot, or Shorty as everyone called him, his was silver and shinny. Cindy's a tin looking metal, not as reflective or shinny as Shorty's, Scott's a tortoise shell brown, and Dean's Black. Did Dean's still count? Eddie's was granite, or gray. Whichever.I took off my jeans and kicked them to hamper. No, Cleo's was gray, so Eddie, I think he said was granite.I pulled off my sweaty work shirt. My own Amber, which looked very close to Scott's, but lighter, and more yellow tinged. I stepped out of my panties and tossed them to the hamper. It seemed there was no pattern for handing out the keys.. The cruel joke, so deftly played upon me by death, leaves my feet curled and arched as if frozen in the moment of orgasm. I am barefoot in death, much as I preferred to be in life.You lick your lips again, memories of our lovemaking rushing back to you. Tears well up as you again think of how you will never again feel the press of my body against yours, or experience the beauty of my lazy smile as we bask in the afterglow of wild, animal fucking.You bend low, and drink in my perfume again. Your lips hover above mine, your tongue running along the cold, crimson stiffness that once pleasured you orally--and now destined never to do so again. Bolder now, your hand slips into my blouse to fondle my left tit. Poking and prodding and squeezing as you kiss my face. Unsatisfied, you move lower, and fumble with the button on my pants.I wear nothing beneath the pantyhose; shorn even of my strawberry bush by morticians you realize likely took liberties with me already. Your hand slips.
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