I have quit doing the dishes; underneath the smell of soap and leftovers your scent kept coming to me, stronger than any cologne or aftershave. At first this wasn't such a tribulation. The dishes were only dishes, after all, and I could always go out to eat. But now I have also quit driving; waiting at red lights, I could taste you, dark and tangy on the back of my tongue where I haven't tasted you in a year. (Replacing the car did not seem to help. And you know how much I loved that car, the first one I ever drove.) Now, I am waking with bright whisker burns streaked across my breasts and belly. Somebody's hand has been between my legs. You know perfectly well I will have to stop sleeping.
return to the study: