Lesbian dating married woman

At MIT, Anna worked with a team that constructed cars—in particular, a solar-powered car that they raced across Australia. Anna also owns three sewing machines and can whip up a pleated skirt, a silk vest, a velvet shawl of royal blue fringed with tassels of black. Anna has, so far, made about 15 three-by-three-inch copper-and-glass squares, which she links together by drilling two tiny holes in each square and attaching them together with miniature gold hoops.

Her spools of thread are lined up along her windows: magenta, purple, gold. The glass scales drape over my arm, cool and clanking, soon to be the bodice; this dress, slipped over the head and waterfalling over the body.

Her name is Anna, not 's all soft and sleepy—a name with wind in it, a name that brings to mind treetops and oceans.

I love that her name is the same spelled forward or backward; this palindrome suggests that despite the softness of her sound, Anna is indestructible, a solid pillar of a person. We spent the entire seven-hour ride complaining about our marriages.

Anna lives just 15 minutes from my house, in an antique abode with pegged-pine floors and soaring ceilings, her bedroom filled with the fragrance of jasmine from an actual jasmine plant, which is, the first time I see it, in extravagant bloom.

Her huge garden is in the back of the house, and we wander through it just as summer starts, filling our baskets; and then, back inside, she slices a starfruit, a melon, a vibrant red pepper, placing them on a white plate in a circular arrangement.

As I was saying, sex with her is entirely different than sex I've had with a man. Perhaps that's because I sometimes found it slightly painful, but I don't really think I enjoy sex with Anna because she lacks a penis.

I've always understood myself to be irrevocably hetero, in love with muscles and sweat, with stubble and silence, with the flat-packed chest and the visible bicep.Here we are—on a Sunday, let's say—at a bed-and-breakfast in Vermont.We are on a soft, slipcovered couch, lying side by side. The water is sparkling, full of fizz, tangy on the tongue, delicious. We lie together on the couch and speak effortlessly of total trivia.The cheese is wrapped in red wax, its flesh a creamy white; there are rounds of French bread scattered on a tray. With intellectual proclivities both, we wonder exactly what a neurotransmitter is. I untangle my hand from hers and, one by one, bend each finger at its perfect waist.We talk about Moonshine, her horse, and Napollo, mine. I study her nails, which gleam like the interior of an oyster shell.

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