how did it come to this?
he held her close, by the light of an oil lamp, and he shone as though he had been polished with a high-wax body polish.
he could only do one thing at a time.
if he held her, he couldnt kiss her. if he kissed her, he couldnt see her. if he saw her, he couldnt feel her.
she could have touched his body lightly with her fingers, and felt his smooth skin turn to gooseflesh. she could have let her fingers stray to the base of his flat stomach. carelessly, over those burnished chocolate ridges. and left patterend trails of bumpy gooseflesh on his body, like flat chalk on a blackboard, like a swathe of breeze in a paddyfield, like jet streaks in a blue church-sky. she could so easily have done that, but she didnt. he could have touched her too. but he didnt because in the gloom beyond the oil lamp, in the shadows, there were metal folding chairs arranged in a ring and on the chairs there were people, with santing rhinestone sungalsses, watching. they all held polished violns under their chins, the bow poised at identical angles. they all had their legs crossed, left over right.
- the god of small things
