"There is nothing sensual about winter."

We buy a case of mangoes, take them home, choose a few ripe ones, slice them, put them in a tupperware in the refrigerator. I put a few slices in a bowl and sit cross-legged on a chair at the kitchen table.

"Why are you eating that with your fingers?"

"Because there is nothing sensual about winter."


Actually, there is. There is a lot sensual about winter. But none of that is what I want to feel today--velvet and cashmere and wool; hot soup and tea and drinking chocolate. The sensations of winter are found in what covers us and fills our stomachs. Where is the sticky mango juice dripping down a chin, falling onto bare toes? I want to write something--something that has skin and sweat and hands that know too much. I have a desire for desire. But what's that if you can't muster desire itself?

Winter is getting to me. Already. Outside, everyone is covered. Today, there is no mystery even in the long darkness; there is only flannel pajamas. I want flesh in front of me. I want to see skin. Muscle. A sheen of sweat. I'm not dancing nearly enough.


"Mangoes and fingers, huh?"

"Yes."