The paresis conquered my entire right side in a procession of patient and orderly ants. Pins and needles pulsating across my cheek, my leg, my arm, followed by a disturbing heat that flooded them intermittently; then the anesthesia took everything away. There was no pain. I let myself be occupied by your absence; I waited without trying to understand. Almost without moving.
A few days after the first rush of desire – my mouth on your lips, seeking your tongue – after those words that lodged themselves in the pit of my being and yet held no meaning for me, when all I wanted was for your body to never leave me in peace, came the waiting, the endless putting off of things. What was so repugnant about me that your hand wouldn’t venture to touch my breasts, to reach under my sweater or stroke my stomach? That you wouldn’t make the slightest attempt to undress me or lead me to your place?
What was electric in our joining turned aseptic, doctored, calculated as our depravity played itself out. And if you bit the back of my neck, it was with such effort that I wondered if you hadn’t sensed, nearby, a sudden decompensation: a collapsing building, an accident, a scream…