The first time I saw a fingerbowl was at the home of my benefactress. [...] The water had a few cherry blossoms in it, and I thought it must be some clear sort of Japanese after-dinner soup and ate every bit of it, including the crisp little blossoms.
So I kiss him, and there is the great dark sea ahead.
I must not be selfless: develop a sense of self. A solidness that can't be attacked.
Widow. The word consumes itself.
The sheets grow heavy as a lecher's kiss.
She looks like a woman who has found it ridiculous to commit herself to a single emotional stance in anything, but must always ride high heavy irony.