I Can't Say I'm Thankful About Being

I Thought That If The Right Time Gets Missed, If One Has Refused Or Been Refused Something For Too Long, It's Too Late, Even If It Is Finally Tackled With Energy And Received With Joy. Or Is There No Such Thing As "too Late"? Is There Only "late," And Is "late" Always Better Than "never"? I Don't Know.

It Wasn't That I Forgot Hanna. But At A Certain Point The Memory Of Her Stopped Accompanying Me Wherever I Went. She Stayed Behind, The Way A City Stays Behind As A Train Pulls Out Of The Station. It's There, Somewhere Behind You, And You Could Go Back And Make Sure Of It. But Why Should You?

In The Past, I Had Particularly Loved Her Smell. She Always Smelled Freshed, Freshly Washed Or Of Freshed Laundry Or Fresh Sweat Or Freshly Loved

But Then She Was Not Awkward, She Was Slow-flowing, Graceful, Seductive - A Seductiveness That Had Nothing To Do With Breast And Hips And Legs, But Was An Invitation To Forget The World In The Recesses Of The Body

It Is Hard For Me To Imagine That I Felt Good About Behaving Like That. I Also Remember That The Smallest Gesture Of Affection Would Bring A Lump To My Throat, Whether It Was Directed At Me Or At Someone Else. Sometimes All It Took Was A Scene In A Movie. This Juxtaposition Of Callousness And Extreme Sensitivity Seemed Suspicious Even To Me.