I feel his fingers slowly stroke my hair to my shoulder. I feel a bit of apprehension as his fingers touch my clothed shoulders and softly caress down...my arms till they reach my own fingers. Softly he takes my hands in my own and lifts them. Warm moist air covers my palms before his lips brush my finger tips. I feel him pulling me, and I concede, rising to stand before him, his lips still sending electric tingles through my hands as he kisses them. I feel a slight nibble on my hand, a playful. I think about how in ‘Bringing Out the Dead,’ the main character washes his face in that girl’s bathroom with three different kinds of soap, ‘each one smelling like a different season,’ and I smile, because I thought I understood when I heard that. Maybe I did. I don’t know, anymore. I didn’t bother with shaving, because some days it’s just too much fucking work and I always cut myself. I step from the shower, squeaky clean and cold in the winter air, steaming like a baby just born in the. More

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