the Paris Review (Sep 2020)

She arrives at my door without warning, never totally unexpected, always a pleasant surprise. I welcome her in, barely able to conceal my excitement from curious neighbors. With the door closed behind us, I behold her in her perfect simplicity. She is slightly disheveled from her journey to me. She needs no artifice — her facade, untouched by rouge, shows none of the virginal timidity of a glossy amateur.

I waste no time eagerly undressing her; thin covering, hiding nothing, falls quickly. She opens willingly and the pleasure is immediate. For weeks she will consume me. Her spine is supple and pleads to be bent. On the couch on a sunny Sunday morning or in bed before nightly sleep, my fingertips leave her tousled as forgotten suitors gaze on jealously, untouched.

We wake together, and over the sound of coffee and cigarettes, her heroes become mine. At the cafe, she whispers to me in every language — of love, of pain, of beauty most of all. I find myself within her, discover stories and forms I had been carrying, unknowing. In public my pulse races with the words that flow in response to hers. At first, I conceal them between us, lest I be overheard. But her lack of shame thrills me, inspires me. My smile hints at the secrets that we share until I can keep them no longer and we race home to consummate them. Finally, spent, we curl up once more, and I languidly glide a thumb across her edges, relishing in the colored stains I left behind, reminders of where I lingered longest.

When our time together is finished, she bears the creases of my ungentle hands. I hold her lovingly, caringly, cherishing her, before I must let her go. But I yearn for her often — her marks on me are less visible but no less real — dreaming of the day when she surprises me at my door once again.