In the striving to remember I forget. What occurs to me now? Not her face, but her feet. This is how it was: she sat behind me on the edge of my bed, kneeling behind me, not quite square-on. She started massaging my shoulders in a fussy way that was anything but what a massage was supposed to be. She told me to take off my shirt and I did. Then she moved square behind me, wrapped her bare legs around my waist and started massaging again, not quite in the same way, a little slower - anyway I liked it. I leaned forward and tried to take off her plimsolls. She shifted slightly. No, my feet are smelly, she said. I don't care, I said.
I unlaced her plimsolls while she massaged my shoulders and my neck. In a drunken plunge, she started sucking my ear. I was drunk so smiled and laughed. I took off her plimsolls and grabbed her feet, running my thumbs over the soles. I smelled my thumbs. She did have smelly feet. I told her it didn't matter because it didn't and we kissed.
I wish I could remember more. I record this here, now, because of how good it made me feel. Sort of foreveryoung, untouchable and... ah, what crap.
I liked her unusual posh voice and the vanishing, dissolving thing that happened when she smiled. It was as if she were not quite there. She never looked at me. When she smiled she lost focus. There are things I forget about her, little idiosyncracies, and I'm really annoyed about that. Actually, what really annoys me is that she is not here with me now, smelling of jam and peaches and unfresh feet, the way I remember her.
