Twist

Every one of her little sighs and gasps makes my insides twist just a little more, counterclockwise, I think. Her skin is impossibly soft and flawless; I want to put my mouth on her, but I can barely move anything except my right hand over her belly. She doesn't want me to think she's small, but I feel like a lumbering giant next to her in my bed, watching her tiny, finely made hands curled above her head.

Just don't fuck anything up, just don't fuck anything up.

And so we stop and get dressed to go to the theater, since we've squandered our naptime now. Hours and hours later, I'm finally unravelled inside and feeling good, and he's sitting next to me on the couch while she changes for the pool, and he asks me, "Are you sure this is okay?"

Twist.

I hand him the pipe and let the white smoke out of my lungs. "Don't ask me that."

When I get back I will dream in Barnes & Noble's
Oh, leave me here, oh leave where angels fear to tread
When I get back, I will bleed after my beating
Don't leave me here, don't leave me here, I'm scared to death

I give my blessing, at last, and so avoid any messiness; I'm so magnanimous. She's in the bathroom again later when I walk to him, put my arms around him, and dance on the living room carpet for a few moments in weary tenderness. He smells good; I tell him so. She appears and he follows her out the door, smiling behind him; it's three o'clock and I don't go to bed until four, but the next day I cannot remember one single thing from that whole hour.

Driving her to the other car in the afternoon, I casually mention that his hesitance was probably due in part to worry about how I might feel. Her face is impassive, maybe slightly confused. "I don't see why he would have thought that."

Twist.