He thinks, grasping for thought and reason again, of birth, and wonders, without fear, in a moment of perfect postcoital clarity, whether what he sees is some kind of illusion.This is what he sees: He is inside her to the chest, and as he stares at this in disbelief and wonder she rests both hands upon his shoulders and puts gentle pressure on his body. He slipslides further inside her. “How are you doing this to me?” he asks, or he thinks he asks, but perhaps it is only in his head. “You’re doing it, honey,” she whispers.
(
drimble he'd been white, he'd been black,
Tue 14 Sep 2010, 21:02,
archived)
