His
fingers moved up and down along the ridge of my spine, tenderly tracing its
slightly curved path from the indent just above my leggings to the pink lace of
my bra and then back down. I thought of
the book If On A Winter’s Night a
Traveler by Italo Calvino. “It’s a
story about two people who chase good stories until they become one themselves.”
That was what someone had said to me once, and what I had said to him, and what
he already knew. I thought about the
line about lovers reading each other’s bodies; it’s a nonlinear narrative but a direction can be recognized in it. Is the direction towards an end, or towards
a hope of recovering time? I had liked him in part because he was obstinately
youthful, with his smile he waged a battle against growing up and with him I
joined the fight. His skin was smooth and
warm beneath my palms as I read the slope of him. His kisses were good enough not to want to
rush through to an end. And I didn’t. Like a reader afraid to start a story because
then the story would begin to end, I hovered between the beginning before the
beginning and a point just after, when fiction plays with possibilities and
nonfiction proves stranger.
*The title of this post is taken from a passage in Italo Calvino's novel, If On A Winter’s Night a Traveler.
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