By the time she reached the door it was too late. She’d been so united to the burden of liberty that the impression made upon him was indelible. Then again, it may have been the hint of cleavage outlined in black lace that seemed to tease him through her white silk blouse.
I watched beneath my pen, intent to seem busy while writing the details of their patiently abundant exchange. I was twelve, filled with fury and curiosity about how men and women went about finding privilege and delight in one another. The weight of suffering covered my bones and I wore my fear like an apron while treating all human exchanges as if they were things to be killed, cooked and eaten with and without laboring intention.
After filling several notebooks with the foolishness of my misunderstandings, I packed up my utensils, believing that all arrangements rose from silent miseries of unchangeable circumstance. They’d been only one of three relationships I’d written about over the course of a year and I came to learn that there is little as transitory as warm flesh on thanksgiving.
The bread of commitment seems to fall from beneath everyone’s feet once the juice that upholds the bones finds itself used as the dressing for life’s drier attentions.
As an adult it seemed to be decor, platters, candles and flowers that kept our attention. Placeholders appeared much more reliable than temporary fixations on taste. Faith rumbles and is intermittently fragile even as the oven of Love’s fire burns the hidden devotions held in aspiration of promised treasure.