Receding

She was one of those people for whom clothing and costume readily blurred. A
suit hung on her perfectly. I felt pedestrian in comparison. She thought
otherwise, and would tell me, placing one finger on my lips to hush my
anticipated scoffing. Sometimes, one hand on my bum.


Kneeling, I eased open the tongue of metal holding her trousers on her hips;
pushing up her shirt to kiss her belly. She cradled my skull, letting me feel
delicate. I rubbed my cheek against her warmth and the tweedy roughness. The
noise of the world and that in my head receded.