I loved flying kites. We'd take the trolley to the beach, the thing bundled on our lap like a parachute or a holiday roast. Before long there would be the first tang of salt and the changing light, some new passengers almost naked, a tee shirt, shorts and a towel in a string bag, their bright swim suits softly bulging and faded by the sea. He would squeeze my hand. I fingered the packaged kite in the way lovers hands fuss over a belly or shoulder. On the beach I would unwrap the thing and hold it against the sand while he fitted the struts and tightened the strings until the shape of the thing emerged from the flattened sprawl of paper. Still holding it, although now like a wounded pup, I'd watch as he walked back along the line and pulled it taut, ready to run. He'd signal and I'd let go and the thing would rise in an instant, spread back against the shore breeze, splayed and flapping. It was like an orgasm. Before long I would take the cord into my hands and fly the thing, feeling the weight of it in my arms, doing so for hours, letting go only when he peeled my fingers from the reel and took the distance back up, dragging the sky down with the flapping creature. | |||
In a novel a character imagines setting soap back upon the rubber nubs, thus struck by the ordinariness of certain objects which could stand for the reality we share. |
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