THE SCIENTIST sheds black socks, sits behind THE POET on THE POET’s mattress. THE POET extends legs toward pillows, shifts thigh to cover bleached period stain. She has told THE SCIENTIST she’d like to be shown something about her body. Her calf twitches against quilty fabric. She folds back bony shoulders; expects sex to begin at the neck.
Instead, THE SCIENTIST moves bulky hand around THE POET’s chest. Small laser, keychain dangling, presses THE POET’s cold milk skin. When THE SCIENTIST clicks metal button, the motion thuds against THE POET’s breastbone. THE POET, against reason, feels the laser should pierce through her body to drywall behind her, but it does not. She takes opacity as evidence of her participation in some reality, and voices this interpretation.
THE SCIENTIST: Why would you believe this?
THE POET pinches thick loose string from beneath her knee and pulls, keeps pulling, content to let the whole of it unravel until their bodies contort around thread and coil, but fabric near the string bunches, provides no more give. White winds tight around index finger, her nail purples. THE SCIENTIST hooks thumb around the taught line, pulls, snaps the string.
THE POET: Show me more about my body.
THE SCIENTIST produces empty water glass from bedside floor. THE SCIENTIST reaches above THE POET’s thread-knee and taps glass’s bottom edge against THE POET’s pink-skinned patella. THE POET’s shin levers up in the expected way. She takes this as evidence she is predictable. If THE SCIENTIST attends expanding human faculties beyond the known or common, THE SCIENTIST will never want THE POET. THE POET keeps this thought to herself.
THE SCIENTIST: I know so much about you. I will never know all of you.
THE POET turns her chin over her shoulder. THE SCIENTIST offers warm lap. THE POET curls her back into THE SCIENTIST’s chest, forgets all she wanted to learn in the warmth.
THE POET: Show me more about my body.
THE SCIENTIST lowers chapped lips to the outer edge of THE POET’s collarbone.
THE POET: I know this already.
THE SCIENTIST does not move. THE POET rolls her ankle, impatient. She runs her knuckle along the mattress to feel for loose threads. THE SCIENTIST smiles against THE POET’s cold shoulder, teeth peek through, wetting skin. THE POET stills at transacted joy.
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