1.

He stood at the window, remembering the feel of her small bones beneath skin; remembering the paleness of her skin, pale like the sky on a January morning, pale like milk. He would rub her back when it was sore or when he wanted an excuse just to touch her, to have her stay still. He saw her body as one single piece, a large slab of beautifully sculpted clay. He told her this: he told her that she was a perfect piece of artwork, complete and whole and beautiful. He kissed her shoulder and turned her to face him. He’d never seen her look the way she did then: it was as though something was burning on her tongue. She looked at him without recognition. She stood up, walked to the window, and was very still, like a kettle almost boiling. She turned around, her arms tight and straight, and said “You are wrong. All bodies are like woven things, intricate like lace, made up of millions of millions parts that compose their whole. There are fine strands of muscles braided along the backbone, bones aligned and malleable and fragile, tendons clinging like elastic bands to the joints, to the bones, motion –” He saw her shake. She took him, pushed him down onto the floor, and sat behind him, tracing his back with the tip of her finger, impressing the shapes of him into his own awareness. She knew his back as though it were a family tree.