Thirst for Salt

by Madelaine Lucas

Our afternoons were stolen time, precious to me, and I maintained my old superstition that if I spoke about what I loved, it would somehow be taken from me.

Though maybe it was a female thing, I thought later, to feel vulnerability where a man might have felt power, but still I longed to see him cracked open under my hands in return, while I remained clothed and composed.

Wearing each other’s clothes, following each other from room to room. It was like one long conversation, those first few years.