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Hand | Jan 12 2002

All I can see is the bottom half of her legs, her legs from the knees down, plus the top part of the left knee.

Also, vaguely, some thigh.

Of course I can’t really see her legs but rather the shape they make her slacks make.

Her slacks are gray, a brownish kind of gray, a color you imagine some rich person’s horse being.

Her shoes are black. I can see her shoes, in part; I forgot to mention that.

She has one hand—I see this also, although it requires me to move my eyes as far to the left as possible, like during an eye exam—folded over the other.

Before sitting down, I saw that she is beautiful.

We’re waiting for the train.

I have some judgment about her shoes. I find them too fashionable: the heals seem too high, the fronts too square. I sense too much energy, just from looking at her shoes, devoted to appearance.

But then her appearance is what people have always responded to, as I imagine it, and so here she is, wearing the latest shoes a person can wear, with entirely square fronts.

Of course it’s all about love. Wanting love. Whatever love is.

Last night I curled behind Rachel as she slept. She was on her side and facing away from me, so I brought my left arm over and around and laid my hand on hers, her right. It was warm. I could feel her breast under my arm. She took my hand in hers.