I remember a pair of yellow underwear, the following morning.  It was early, a quarter to eight, and I was shivering from being awake and naked in the open air of the room.  I wanted badly to crawl back into bed, to share your space again; I also knew that it would be impossible for me to miss work.  And, really, I didn't mind; I was sated, and a little exhausted, and sore, and we were both glowing, a little.

An hour and a half before, we'd both woken to each other's bodies, each other's flesh, and had made love, the third time since the night before.  Sex is always so much gentler in the morning; both parties are far too sleepy to show any true aggression, and can only stroke and caress, softly, can only kiss and hold, softly.

Softly was the unspoken word between us, the silent rule in the air and the bed, as we met in so many places, all at once.  Our eyes, lips, and skin all touched and met, and for a time, I thought that I could dance.

As I was getting dressed, wobbling on one leg and slipping pants over the other, I wondered aloud where all our clothes had fallen, in the dark of the night before.  As I spoke, and you started to smile coyly, I looked down at my feet, and saw a pair of small yellow panties; they were yours.  Here, there was a sock, and there, a shirt--the morning light gave everything in your room a pallid, dim tone.  But all I that cared to notice was your underwear, yellow and see-through, in a rumpled bump on the brown carpet.   It brought a smile to my own lips, briefly.

After that, I don't think we ever saw in black and white, again, no matter what time of day it was.