An image of her develops, coming across the hot center of Greek plains into my mind like a whisper. I touch her breasts; her eyes lower. Her face fills with motion. In the village young girls make music, and we walk in streets where the dust stirs. What do my fingers touch? The coffee we drink in a taverna makes circles in my cup. Her eyes seem to be blank spots: colorless. We do not talk. The sea breathes deeply from its belly; squares on the tablecloths turn white. Were her hands slender? There are several vacant spaces in what I remember. This evening a blue painting on the wall becomes the Mediterranean Sea in her hair. In the dim light of conversation I see a woman laughing. There is a sameness about the mouth which introduces one into the other. We speak. I touch her breasts; her eyes lower. One smiles through the other. In the morning her hair will be wet with the jasmine-scent of sweat, and I will enter the woman through the image. It is reason enough.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com