and it all started with this:
Sniff a glow here. Whiff a shine there. At least three fingers on each of her hands now reminded her of seashells, the deep salty ocean and the thrill of getting all dressed up, going to a nice restaurant, ordering a bottle of red wine, and then eating a beautifully prepared and presented dinner without using any silver ware. After their individually historic, monumental little hit-and-run, she lay basking in the lustily tossed and desperately twisted linens and wondered—though not as vividly or accurately as some of her more recently attended body parts—Didn’t it seem like his right hand was just a little bit cooler than his left? Or was it just me?
He wrote in his book: “CHAPTER SEVEN: The Love Scene,” and did not write anything else for the next three pages. In fact, he just sat there the rest of the night with the pencil in his hand, ready, hovering ever more pregnantly over the smooth white page, while he stared blankly out the window at the darkly shifting nightscape of tangerine-stained clouds and a stewed prune sky.
Still nothing. Still. Nothing.