Her my body

The dog licks my hand as I worry about the left nipple of the woman in the bathroom. She is drying her hair, the woman whose left nipple is sore. We looked this evening for diagonal cuts or discoloration or bite marks from small insects that may be in our bed. It is a good bed, a faithful bed. A bed that won’t be hurt by the consideration we gave to the possibility of small though disproportionately strong insects in our bed. The blow-dryer sounds like a jet taking off. The first time I flew to Brussels, people began the journey happy but ended with drool on their shirts. She is drying her hair though she has never been to Brussels. Drying her hair though she could be petting a dog. Drying her hair while having red thoughts about what the pain in her nipple means. I would not dry my hair in such a moment but I am bald. The body of the woman has many ways to cease being the body of the woman. I have one way to be happy and she is that way. I would like to fly with her to Brussels. We would not be put off by the drool. This is what happens when people sleep. We would buy postcards of the little boy who saved Brussels when he peed on a fire. We would be romantic in public places. For the moment these desires can best be furthered by petting a dog. I’m also working on this theory. That sometimes a part of the body just hurts. That the purpose of prayer is to make the part of the body that sometimes just hurts the little toe or appendix. Something vestigial or redundant. Something that can be jettisoned. I have no reason to use the word cancer while petting a dog. Here is a piece of a second during which a jet is not flying nor is it on the ground. I’m working on a theory that no one can die inside that piece of a second. If you are comforted by this thought you are welcome to keep it.