It sometimes happens that life loses it's colours when woman reaches her 50s. Her body is still hot, even though it's not that smooth and tight. Her husband, an old man with flabby dick can no longer satisfy her. Continue »

This is not about a cozy Sunday morning in bed with coffee and the arts pages of the New York Times and a breakfast somewhere off in the distance like a glassy horizon.

This is not about the lovemaking that can happen on weekends, the slow deliberate crawl to an exuberant finish, the taking of time, the patient thread of minutes spilling into whole hours, fingers tracing skin, tuning to no obvious music. This is not about a whole passing of morning through touch, touch like Braille, a light touch on the shoulder blade, the small of the back, the collarbone, the cheek.

This is not about the nudge awake, the putting down of the paper, the relinquishing of the crossword, the unisoned turn towards another, waiting body. This is not about the splendor of a late-March Sunday morning. This is not about early spring romance and its attendant flourishes, the wisp of hair meditated upon, fingered through, then reconsidered. This is not about the curve of a palm against a hip, or tendrils of sweet sweat perfuming the bedroom, or a rising sun casting new shadows on the bookshelves, the nightstand, the small pile of clothes on the floor.

This is not about the devilry of a morning in bed, the tease of a nipple, the bite of the neck, the sheets slipping off the bed quadrant by quadrant. This is not about a morning's eventual slide into aggressor and prey, into an altered dimension of sexual theatrics, into the sweet torture of restraint. This is not about a revelatory orgasm, thigh muscles clenching, eyes perforated shut, the room emptying itself of superfluous detail. This is not about rhythm or communion or freesia-scented love. This is not about the sigh, the yielding, the full-mouth kiss, and the feeling that God is in the room.

This is not about the guilty glory of a Sunday morning in bed, an agenda-less morning with hours to kill before the unglorious tasks clamor for attention. This is not about privacy or intimacy or whispery words passing between lovers. This is definitely not about that. This is about a woman stepping away from these things, stealing away on a Saturday night because she didn't want the Sunday morning just this once, not even with its richness and repose, didn't want the pillowy confirmation of love, the high art of it, the gestures.

This is about a woman wanting carelessness and bad poetry. This is about a woman wanting sloppy first kisses in all their awful beauty. This is about the tremor of a sighting across the room. This is about strangers, and a woman forgetting where she's been. This is about the chiseling of desire from a room. This is about flirting, about gravity, about the surrender of booze. This is about touch coerced from a drink. This is about not apologizing for that.

This is about clarity and night, both unraveling in long, easy draughts. This is about too much noise and too much music. This is about a slide towards an adolescent, anonymous groping in a bar. This is about no one, and everyone, watching. This is about the purposeful arch on a bar stool, about sweaty palms, about heat outside and in.

This is about a woman not knowing anything but being sure. This is about easy exchange, Saturday night frothy and frenzied. This is about slashing and burning, about sizing up, about quick assessment. This is what happens in a minute's liquid decision. This is about an unshy vertex of thighs, of a stranger's beading beer glass. This is about everything but love.

This is about a Saturday night swooning with intention. This is about forgotten decorum. This is about tipping large. This is about extravagant, hidden agendas. This is about failing to notice the time. Failing to remember a promise. A promise being forgotten, a second whiskey. This is about a spontaneous shimmy against a bathroom door, the circuitous dance of strangers in a bar, the shining eyes, the wet lips. This is about wanting nothing much, but wanting nevertheless. This is about a limited span of hours, and unlimited access, and time making all the difference.

This is about a fevered pressing of hands over fabric. An indelicate reach for the hook of a bra. This is about a clumsy, nonsensical embrace. This is about how sloppy the first kiss really is. This is about tongues roping themselves, faltering for words, trying for something else. This is about a vague sort of agreement being drawn out of the noise, the heat, the inevitable next drinks. This is about torsos colliding upright. The closing of eyes against the delirious neon. This is about last call. This is about last dance.

This is about the two a.m. stumble to the streets, the rain just starting. This is about a cab coming to take a woman home. This is about a farewell not being spoken. This is about an awkward attempt at gazing meaningfully at a stranger at two o'clock in the morning. This is about a button having come undone. This is about a reach towards the button, then deciding against it. This is about a glance to the watch, the first all night. This is about not asking for a phone number. This is about not wanting a phone number. This is about a cab rounding the corner, its brights flickering hello. This is about temporary, spectacular freedom and a cab coming to take a woman home. This is about a final glance backwards, and this is about what keeps a woman from going backwards. This is about a woman not waving from a window, still hopeful. This is about knowing what would not be enough, ever. This is a woman knowing this. This is about knowing the choices. This is about a woman making a choice. This is a woman not choosing a languorous Sunday morning in bed with a lover. This is a woman not choosing sloppy seconds and a boozy late-night grind. This is a woman opting out, opting out, and opting in. This is a woman riding home, alone, in the thick of a moonless night and a gathering rain.

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