8:105) chris abraham 01-FEB-98 21:29

true romance and told stories insult the living. what is the romance i suffer and i have had many many and yet where have they gone? the moment in the corridor under a skirt skin red with blood, the blush of lovers the fingers working, the waves rushing against the hull, the whine of hoover around the corner, breath, breathing and the tilting of the pelvis against my hand, feeling the fine blond hairs of the skin, the pitch of the ferry, the cleaning lady around the corner, behind the hold, the quickening until only breath and the cold of skin braced by north atlantic ice -- the sija from helsinki to stockholm, the brace of cold, the icy thighs, the turning hip, the light field of blond hairs found on bare skin, which tightens and catches the cold, making skin brace brace, the hairs stand on end, the breath, the breath, huffs of breath from the mouth then more shallow, tighter and the stomach, the muscles tensing, the slick space the movement the way we moved on the deck to the music from the band, after we had the drinks, the cigarettes, the courting men, the rich Norwegian thwe young texaN and it was i who took her hand, and we rushed the deck to cool the sweat from the dancing, the the movement, the bodies pressed and moved, moving. the thick scent of her body and the perfume, the rich techture of the auburn hair, the dancing and Finnish music, the oompah oompah and her father was there, looking after her, looking after her, but we ran off ran off to the deck, to freeze under the dark sky, the milk of a cloudy night sky, mixed and velvety. the milk of her and the nuzzle where my face was, looking for warmth in her, looking for something to make the night last another day, but then it couldn't, there was extenuating circumstance, so we just hid amongst the corridors and pressed agains the railing, listening to the rushing waves on the big white ferry, the ship filled high with trollies, lorries, truck, cars, mail, papers, cargo and us. the touch of her hand in my heair, the press of the body, hot and panting, the and the sweep of the minutes then the hour and until the summer saw us tired and towards our rooms, having saved ourselves through innocence. there was no place for us to hide, so we scurried about the boat like children, like teenagers, finding our little quiet dark corners, a place and hand might find a dark spot, might steel a kiss, might sneak a touch and allow the ship to be the third, the movement and the pitch, the night, then the walk, hand in hand, our bodies aching and fatigued, the evening clothing, the dress, the jacket, and then sleep enough to close eyes, splash water, and listen to the announcement, to feel the dull thud of the gin, and then the port, the landing, the deboating and a final farewell as though we had barely met, such knowing glances away from the old man, away from the common friends the friends in common, a coffee and goodbye.