Body Language


Allison Marie Conway

Running a hot bath, I get undressed in the middle of a cold gray afternoon, observe my body in the mirror. It didn’t snow but walking through the city you might have thought that at any moment soft flakes would begin to fall. The clouds were that swollen, thick, and low. The air was frozen with that strange sort of tension between patience and anticipation. Strolling over the cobblestone streets felt like moving through a romantic movie scene.

The skin on my thighs turns rosy pink when I sink into the water, that pleasurable sting when you warm your body right after coming in from the cold. I sip my wine and listen to the new Lana Del Rey. I know not everybody does, but I find her kind of glamorous romantic melancholy to be seductive and haunting. Love as tragedy, sex as a hopeful kind of destruction. Desire like…

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