My skin might be starving, but no more than my brain or, I suppose, my soul is for communion. I find myself out in the evenings, in the midst of conversation, hands sliding across the table for this meat or that cheese, or the hard end of the baguette, or to dole out the last of the carafe of rosé—une autre s’il vous plaît—and lean back into the conversation as though into a wave that carries me along, gently and securely. But also with direction and determination. To be understood. To be celebrated for things you do not have to explain. To be together. What kind of sex can compete with this?
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