Anne sat with her legs stretched straight across the sofa, her hands underneath her thighs. The trees outside her window danced violently in the golden sun of afternoon...their leaves like fluttering petals on a sequined dress. But the low drone of the window unit AC drowned out the sound of the botanical Charleston-in-double-time. How wretchedly clinical it was to stay cool.
Click and the AC was off. Anne returned to the sofa, stretched her legs out straight, and tucked her hands underneath her thighs. Resume thoughts.
Resume.
Thoughts.
She had none. Besides those sort of cloudy, sultry Tennessee Williams kind of thoughts. The kind of thoughts that make you appreciate the beads of sweat on your collarbone and wish that there was someone else around to lick them off.
No, those thoughts would not do.
She freed her hands and examined her wrists. Fragile and delicate. Perhaps her most snappable feature. The white skin was almost like gossamer tissue paper or the pages of a pocket Bible. With pronounced blue veins crisscrossing just below the surface, like tributaries flooding porcelain banks. She had always feared the transparency of her skin. Being forced to see that death was eminently possible since life was made possible by such fragility alone. It made her heart pound in her chest and it made her cry.
No, those thoughts would not do either.
She didn't really smoke, not really, but she needed a cigarette and a walk and an introduction. The need to feel his hand on her neck was too overwhelming and required eradication by yellow cabs and small dogs and subway grates and gathering clouds.
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