“Each Person to Her Paradise”
by
Diane Williams
In the long run, as a sequel to our other less strenuous raptures, he undressed and put himself on the bed belly down—lying cross-ways across it.
This was his come hither. His arms were pressed against his sides, I think.
He was facedown, I think. Facedown, really? Like a swimmer. Were his arms really stretched out in front?
And the stress that ensued was not the strange thing.
I did my best, keeping my lower part centered when I met up with him—after he had moved his location and changed his posture accordingly.
I was awkwardly raising a leg, flexing a knee.
But this is my motto: While you can’t figure out how, you do it.
And I was wearing my skin unfresh and sallow and some sympathetic restoration in that regard is still called for.
But by the time he stuck his hand out toward me . . . Did he then?
So . . . no, neither of us accomplished anything particularly tender then or later.
He had a habit—how he took my arm, as if with a heavy pincers, on a subway platform to maneuver us if we were in a crowd—and I really enjoyed that aspect of our relation.
Each person to her paradise.
That grip of his, as a matter of fact, was, and still is, when I think of it, a source of inspiration—like a legend or wisdom—like humor can be.
When water gushed down his body when he rose from the tub, after he had bathed, that flow of water was a drumroll.
The god in this story is this man and I do not accuse him of anything. I could.In the long run, as a sequel to our other less strenuous raptures, he undressed and put himself on the bed belly down—lying cross-ways across it.
This was his come hither. His arms were pressed against his sides, I think.
He was facedown, I think. Facedown, really? Like a swimmer. Were his arms really stretched out in front?
And the stress that ensued was not the strange thing.
I did my best, keeping my lower part centered when I met up with him—after he had moved his location and changed his posture accordingly.
I was awkwardly raising a leg, flexing a knee.
But this is my motto: While you can’t figure out how, you do it.
And I was wearing my skin unfresh and sallow and some sympathetic restoration in that regard is still called for.
But by the time he stuck his hand out toward me . . . Did he then?
So . . . no, neither of us accomplished anything particularly tender then or later.
He had a habit—how he took my arm, as if with a heavy pincers, on a subway platform to maneuver us if we were in a crowd—and I really enjoyed that aspect of our relation.
Each person to her paradise.
That grip of his, as a matter of fact, was, and still is, when I think of it, a source of inspiration—like a legend or wisdom—like humor can be.
When water gushed down his body when he rose from the tub, after he had bathed, that flow of water was a drumroll.
The god in this story is this man and I do not accuse him of anything. I could.
Biblioklept 