The moments ricocheted off both of them and landed inside each of her fingers. They would lie and wait until much later, when she would unbind them in secrecy and watch them seep through to paper; how he bit into his bottom lip when he came, his head pressed cool and unyielding against her shoulder blade, how he had made her sit down when she spoke of the ghosts, the lingering spirits. Her right pinky contained the recollection of her hands working the fragrant shampoo through his hair, massaging as she did her own mane, rivers of her caresses slipping down his sides. The left ring finger encompassed the memory of how he had pinned her to the sheets with his gaze, so thoroughly that she could almost see her name dangling from his heart. They all spun out in their own dancing sentences, longing for the permanence of the page. He had vowed to show her a world where desire consumed is a virtue, and all of the ephemeral hours they spent together dissolved into 127 new ways to worship.
© jennifer summer | 2013
German dancer & choreographer Pina Bausch (1940-2009)