By Jeanne Althouse
After we made love in the meadow by the Russian River, riding home across the Bridge, I gazed up into the red South Tower and the August moon, suspended. When I got home and undressed, alone in my small studio, I smelled your lemony scent on my skin: the same scent he wore years ago. He lied that he loved me, or he lied to himself that he wanted to love me. I never saw him after we parted. He died from AIDS in 1984. By then I was having my children with the stranger who drove me across the bridge.
Holy, holy!
Exquisite, Jeanne. Dare I say that I am green?
Powerful. A master in our midst has taken charge to set the bar.
Compact and exquisite!
Ouch.
I love.
Talk about your “love on the rebound”! Powerful stuff!
A lovely love story.