September 18, 2012


The backs of my hands in her flanks, rolling over, slowly, until my palms settle on the back of the hips, on the rises of the iliac crest: one of those places that call out for the palms; they fit there, like a sleepy child's head fits between shoulder and breast. I come to a complete stop.

Disengage cleanly, says David Lauterstein, often. Nothing worse than a handshake that just sort of indistinctly peters out. Shake and be done. And usually I agree with him. But sometimes I stop like this, for two or three full breaths. Sometimes the absence is a presence; sometimes the drumstick that doesn't fall is more audible and important than the one that does.