Her attractive pain, like a cafe, all I needed, the comfort of finding her open all I required, my favorite seat saved for me in her corner, the warm brightness of company spread between us as if we held two overlapping fans, all I needed to need this, to need to be gathered. The conversation bores with pleasant buzzing, her attractive pain sharpening each flat inconsequential note into a state of perfect pitch, her fine tuned face, all her metalwork vibrating to tone, the wild folk strain before the wedding dances.

Her attractive pain and my gospelly feeling about it, I sway in place, bright-eyed and beaming. Easter morning in her smiles, her glances-- how can we repent when we know how it ends in skirt to skirt slow dances. But frantic fussing about the appearance of things breeds frailty, it burns the muscles from the back. Think of those embraces, the stomach fear of breaking her that concern.