(vindictive dusters: pt2)

This is why I write about Anya – the night I felt the weight of her hand on my sweatered arm. It was a simple gesture, I remind myself, not that, the other thing. But it lingered, resting a little longer than the conversations or the convictions that led us there.

Oh, Anya, I felt absolutely nothing for the first time.

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It all started simply enough, if one can call a missionary date simple. Drive, park, knock, drive, park, door, gaze, order, wait, proselytize. Happens all the time, at least it does now.

“I finished my assessment last night.”

(Why did I start here, not Philemon or Hosea – the slave he didn’t want or the love he couldn’t leave?)

“And?”

“………”

(What else could I say?)

“Witness A., have you ever held on to something, really held?”

(No.)

“………”

“………when this life of firsts becomes nexts and lasts.”

“………”