It was like the old days always were - unfinished. Off, after one long unbroken sentence - fractured in the end not by syntax, but by crossing the road.
I spoke, too, of course - inadequately, subsumed.
No coitus. Just interruptus. Figurively, words for 89 minutes - a train journey, a feature film. Intersting, breathless words.
No silence, where the passion might have been. Fear of silence.
Afterwards...
Aftertwards I felt angry. Not the irritated, impatient anger - but the rage deep beyond it in my guts. The rage of a hunter. New to me, this rage.
