Idea
The sound our feet made when we walked across his floorboards was a rhythmic accompaniment to physical desire both of us could have thought to put a stop to. It did occur to me, just on principle, to end that noise.
When I took off my coat, he said my coat was gray. I said it was green. He said it was gray.
In the upstairs of his house, when I sat myself down to look around, I decided I liked everything I was looking at. There was nothing I did not approve of, or that I did not admire that I could see.
He said, “You make such fast moves,” when he was kissing me. Then he said, “The watch—you have to take off the watch.” Into the palm of his hand I put my watch, my four hairpins, my necklace made of silver beads.
He said, “That! Put that in your purse. I don’t like that!” when I took off my brassiere. It remained there, though, curled up on his wooden floor, curled awkwardly for a piece of clothing, not awkwardly if it had been something else perhaps, a creature.
He said, “Now,” he said, “use both of your hands so that I will feel you are really with me.” Or, I was the one who said that to him—that’s right, because I knew he could do things he would never want me to do. Add to all of that another distinctive feature, an atmosphere of awe, and something else that could be wet and gleaming which would not ordinarily be symbolic.