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“I love you,” the woman said breathlessly. And she meant it. The two hadn’t made love like that since Mr. Jefferson returned from France. He’d been in love before, sure, but not like this. He felt like a kid again. His insides all butterflies and cartwheels, a gyroscope of emotion. His head spun. His heart skipped. Thomas stared back at her, lost in the mystery of the woman’s dark, ebony skin. “I love you too,” he said, his heart awash in feelings he had never felt before. “Does that mean I’m not yo’ slave no mo’?” the woman asked, stroking his face. “No your still my slave,” he said, standing up and fastening his pantaloons. “But you’re my favorite slave.” And he meant it, too.
Date Written: May 05, 2003
Average Vote: 3.75