How I touched her.
Imagining courage to be a new-found weapon, I brandished it out, wielded it to my lone opponent, who was right in front of my eyes. I took her in my hands, unclothed her fully, lay her on the finely carpentered mahogany pulpit — her spine cracking against the furniture, her body opening itself up to my hand movements. She let out some simple monosyllables and then groaned out unfathomable words, much to my chagrin.
I was trying to read her — I was curious to find the meanings of these words. I ran my fingers over the insides of her body — it was smooth and beautiful, her skin untouched for a long while — pure and perfect — she excited me. I was as hungry as a lion starved for more than a fortnight. I devoured her, fully in her entirety, awed by her efficiency and undeterred ability to deliver. I looked up and let out a sigh of extreme euphoria.
I was satisfied beyond need and belief. Those enduring and blissful minutes with her satiated my never-ending hunger for words, for she, was a fat, stout dictionary with a hard spine and I, a poor soul trying to quench my thirst to learn.