Pieces

by MB


I forgot how good we are together, he said to me yesterday. We fit.

It was 1:00 pm. My hand was on his chest, which was flushed red by the overbearing heat of the afternoon and by the absence of space between his body and my own. His elongated limbs and torso formed a straight line down the middle of my bed, and his head, propped up by two slightly-too-plump pillow shams, was the only part of of him that deviated from this lay-flat position.

I must have murmured in response. 

I stayed on top of him for a few more moments, my legs on either side of his torso, knees bent as I shifted slightly back and forth, resting my body weight on my shins and calves. Drawing upon the tenants of my yoga practice, I adjusted my spine, carefully stacking each vertebrae one on top of another. I flexed my abdomen as I inhaled. I did not move my hand from his chest. 

Drawing a breath in through my nostrils, I closed my eyes and directed my attention to my sensory awareness of the present moment, which disappeared before I fully realized it was there. I focused on the feeling his body beneath mine, the quivering of my inner thighs against the steadiness and strength of his quadriceps. 

I'm not sure how long we remained that way. At some point I realized that I was no longer looking down at him - my body had instead taken up residence next to his, my flat back and outstretched limbs mimicking his posture.

Side by side, we laid in this position for the better part of the following 30 minutes. In tandem, but as individual units. We did not fidget. Neither of us spoke.

Later that night I tried to position my body in the crater I imagine he'd formed, searching for any sign of an indentation his weight might have left behind on my mattress. 

I did not find one. His absence was meticulous.

His body had left nothing behind.