sean

In the days of music, we spent the sunny afternoons with all the doors and windows open, the two of us lieing on hardwood floors listening to records as the last of the morning fog burning away slid across the floor between us. If one of the songs struck her fancy she'd jump to her feet and twist and slide around the floor in her skull and crossbone socks, arms flailing, fingers snapping. I studied rules of verse, her shadow danced across my open book.

When she tired or the song changed she'd collapse back on the floor next to me and take another hit. I watched her muscles tense up and then relax, her eyes roll back into her head. My turn, I'd say, and then the half falling half floating thing, the sun on my face, an hour to exhale.

Breathing is like sex, she'd say.

That place between the back of your jaw and the inside of your ears, that hollow space between your throat and your brain. That's where our love lived, on those sunny sunday afternoons. We hadnt had sex in who knows how long, we had found somewhere it felt better.

When the sun began to set everything turned to oranges and pinks and invariably the smell of smoke would drift from neighbors barbecues through the open doors and windows. Her dancing long over, we'd drift in and out of sleep curled up against each other on the floor as the temperature dropped.