A Romance

by Tim Schlee

They lived in the shadows, groping in the dark to map the form of the other. Hers was a subtle

research, half caress. His hands, by contrast, could not be contained, leapt from knee to shoulder

or from buttocks to breast, and in their haphazard delight needed constantly to retrace their

manic movements. The way was not easy. When her legs grew restless from sitting or weary

from standing, she shifted, and they started over. He cursed. When at last his scattered probing

mapped a web too loose to remember and his concentration broke, he beat himself, and they

started over. She sighed. He couldn’t bear a distortion, a flaw of any kind in the image he drew

in his mind. She wanted no part of him to go untouched, unmapped, unknown. It was love they

were after, full and complete, and it was love they would find. But just when he felt he was

approaching the end of his research, she moved and spoiled everything. He cursed. She sat down.

They waited for the sun to rise.

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