Chapter Thirty

That night Anna put her head on Dora’s breast and something changed. It had to do with the dusty apartment and the expression in the other’s face. It was the opposite of talking.

If I doubted you, I’d be glued to the floor by fear.

But instead there was a bending at the neck and Dora’s two hands flat up against her lover’s chest.

So, Anna decided not to be an asshole anymore, which meant having to ruin her own reputation. But the verbal police were talking and she couldn’t say, “No, officer, what contraband?” Because … because … because she had a chance for happiness and so put out her hand to reach for the real right thing.

Why?

For the sake of affection and mutual knowledge. For the sake of a fearful future and the little “ooh” that pops in her chest when Anna sees this woman’s real face and not that strange memory of some empress, flushed. And two breasts in the process of being made love to, pulled freely out of a torn striped shirt. These torn stripes light up the whole picture and give some geometry to an otherwise experiential image.

When I put my hand inside her there is a waiting room filled with amiable travelers. When she comes, they go and pass us by. One is a lanky guy - stringy hair to the shoulders. One is a quiet shuffler - always looks at his feet.

Eyes that were full of trains. Hair that was full of trains. Air travel is meaningless, merits no comparisons but these women had trains for veins. Clacking late nights, passing bright lights, and cigarettes out the windows of strangers’ compartments. Anna came out of the movie and found it had rained. The sidewalk was wet.