A Moment of Panic

I am not ecstatic about the flesh on her not-yet-womanly body, and her other arm is very much like her other one, and so on. However, none of her du­ties are undone, or need doing, or are duties which will soon need doing, which could be vexing. She has no dilemma evincing a religious principle. And, in­stead of a gang of people fucking her, or poking fun at her fat cunt lips, she has under her feet a luxuriant carpet. In addition, her laundry has been laundered by her, and now, in spite of itself, this laundry is soft and folded, or hanging languorously. Some of her bedclothes are trimmed with a frothy white trim, be­cause people she has never met made a decision that that trim would be nice.

From her side of it, looking anywhere, everything is sunlit, entrancing.

But beyond this recognition, which is mine, not hers, there is this aroma, unsmelt yet by me, blowing around through the cool air here, coming along, mixed with some sudden large gusts of true love, which all you do—you want it?—is on weekends, you inhale it.