What about Sex?
She Asks
When the mind rises
red like blood
like roses
Sex is about to
pounce
Yes, it’s natural they say. Or about as unnatural as they come, says I.
Her hair is long, straight, shiny, well combed, and parted with such precision that it leaves a straight line of lambent scalp running exactly north to south: a long moonlight scar. It is also very black. So black, in fact, that I find myself looking for lighter roots in the dim light of the bar. They must be there, surely. But I can find none.
She has long, pale, ringless fingers and kind eyes, curious and kind under bluish lids, that now and then glance up at me from the other side of the narrow table. She gives the impression of being very clean, almost sterilized. At the least very well-scrubbed.
These long, pale, ringless fingers pick up her beer and bring it close to her face. She squints to read the fine print on the label and as she does her brow wrinkles into small twin crosses.
God, she is beautiful.
Crossless again she returns the bottle. She gives no indication whether she made out any of the tiny print.
