by Erica Paul
(02/11/04)
She sits on her narrow bed after shedding her clothes, rocking back and forth, caressing her bare arms.
She twists one way and then the other, struggling with awkwardness, with embarrassment and with a strange,
sweet, needle-like thrill. She wonders if he expects her, if he will want her, if he will send her politely away.
The thrill wins. She slips blindly into a robe and down the hall to his room.
When she opens the door, she begins to breathe again, for it seems he has been waiting for her.
She moves kohl-eyed and serpent-like into his bed after an uneasy wrestle with her zipperless gown. He cushions her.
It’s cold.
You're warm.
She is brittle bones and tangled hair and a witch-white face.
Your lips are like paper.
He bites them until they are swollen. She begins to twist his skin with sharpened fingertips. He kneels on her
thighs and pulls her forward by her shoulders to kiss her neck. They fall apart. She peels off his clothes.
He turns his face to the window. He is always silent for this, almost unwilling, but she insists. He will be
bare against her legs.
He is exposed to the chill. She slides beneath the blankets and pulls him far down. She breathes her own
warm breath. He rests on one shoulder beneath her knees. She hears nothing but the blood in her ears. Her
hands are electric, nerves and motion. She eases her arms behind her back to still them.
Youarehoney, he whispers, and he doesn't know if he intends for her to hear.
He lifts his head and dries his tongue on her thigh. He moves up, slowly, with his mouth. His knees open hers.
They breathe in sharply, and then there is a stillness that is not still
