Foreman had never dated a woman who didn't shave her legs before. His last serious girlfriend would never skip - every three days she would balance a leg on the toilet lid and lather up, even when he told her he didn't really care. I don't do it for you, she would say, rolling her eyes. You think my boss likes seeing employees who don't shave? She had been an executive secretary, and if the pencil skirt was a cliche, at least she had worn it well. Although later the pencil skirt probably contributed to a move to an executive's lover when even those hours were more forgiving than his residency's.
Thirteen only wore pants, though, and the hair on her long legs was blonde and fine. When Foreman asked about it, she laughed and told him she wasn't a natural brunette. Do you take me less seriously now that you know my secret? she had mock-pouted, dissolving into laughter. It stuck out in his mind as the only time she had really laughed, a whole bottle of white wine between them and the bedroom door open and waiting for the first time.
The sex that night had been amazing. Learning someone's body had always fascinated Foreman, and Thirteen's had been particularly interesting: long fingers, long neck, breasts that fit his palms perfectly. And the long legs - he had spent what felt like hours kissing his way up each one, feeling the hair underneath his tongue and his lips, paying close attention to the dimples behind her knees that made her moan and twist on his pillows, her now incongruous dark waves splaying out over the cream slipcovers.