Men aren’t made to live alone. Women are stronger, they
merge with the weather, I don’t know how.
–John Berger
She sits, squatting really, on the roof of the apartment.
Her hair is wild from a mousse of their sweat and secretions and styled by his hands pulling
and fingers gripping. Her shirt is thin and she drips from under her
arms, shaved smooth this morning and now slightly rough. The breeze is
stifling. It’s too hot to enjoy a cigarette, but she smokes still.
She watched him dress and leave as if in a dream. Almost
from outside of her own body. She kissed him hard by the doorjamb, then
rubbernecked from the patio, leaning far over the railing to gather every
glimpse.
She doesn’t like the heat but hates the cold and thus cannot
complain. Yet it suits her. It is passion. Fire. And the wind drifts again, now
drying the droplets and blowing her hair as she perches on the roof, smoking in
the sun.
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