I was a mistress of a powerful man once, although that wasn't a word I would use or allow him to use in my presence. He was something of a fool but I was crazy for him, there was an actual magnetism, metal filings would stick to him like rain on a window. He had an oxen scent and carriage, the pure bulk of embracing him in his suit and vest and braces could take my breath away. I would call him at his country house or the city apartment. I insisted upon it. I would not be invisible, he could explain me away on his own, but I would not disappear. "Is your husband there?" I would ask his wife. She knew who I was and respected my directness. "I'll see if he has the courage to take your call," she said once. Briefly I found myself longing to touch her as well. | |||
To escape from " you" and " me" as much as from some mark of difference ( a woman's hand upon a man's nipple? or who spawns a sunflower upon a path?) |
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