remembering what you want

Lake Water Woman gets kissed

I stood facing the Buffalo Man, a great indecision of air between us. He stirred nothing in me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Maybe if I could get closer. Why can’t I get close to you?”

“You don’t want me enough.”

“Oh but I do.” I knew that I did, I remembered writing it down.

“You only want me for my money.”

First I laughed, and then I stopped laughing. Under the absurdity of that accusation, there was truth. I had pinned on him my hopes of a way out of debt. I was thinking he would help me make some money. And all the pressure I felt to hurry it up, make this connection, take it somewhere, were all rooted in the idea that this liaison would produce something sellable.

And that’s why I didn’t feel the pull anymore. It’s not his salability that I love.

I let it fall away like an ice shell cracking and the distance fell with it and there he was, breathing into my hair. “Want me because I am strong and true. Want me because everything alive in you wakens to my touch.”

He kissed me then. He tasted like, oh—he tasted like lake water.

He tasted like me.


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2 Responses to remembering what you want

  1. I love these stories. This one, in particular, so moved me today. Thank you.

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