It occurs to me that I turn to soup amid affection, that i’ll feel nothing but disdain for a man until he reaches out and brushes my hair away from my face, until he cups the back of my head with his hand and traces the spaces between my fingers with his. the moment i kiss him it’s over, squirming into him under hotel sheets, useless, wordless, but still restless, only little squeaks and hums and “whaa-at’s”, i’ll put your hand between my legs if i’m feeling daring and it’s dark out. is this why they concede to me so briefly, in that love soup, fall a little in love with my hands and my mouth and my laugh and then slowly, tomorrow, squinting into traffic with the radio on, they slink away, as quietly as they came; as unintentionally as they came, our hands still holding onto each other over the emergency brake.
