Through the Darkness

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Crickets. Twittering birds. The patter of rain, gentle as springtime, on a tin roof. Somewhere a violin, electronically enhanced, swooped and soared.

“Relax, Hannah.”

I melted, boneless, into the warm flannel sheets. “Ummmm.”

Fingers, soft, smooth, and sure circled my breast-the good one-compressing here, releasing there. I suppressed an insane urge to giggle. “This feels weird,” I said.

Garnelle continued working in silence, her fingers gently kneading, stroking, gradually converging on my nipple. As she worked, she’d glance at me from time to time through a waterfall of blunt-cut silver bangs. “This forces toxic fluids out through your lymph nodes.”

“That feels so good, it should be illegal.”

Garnelle grinned. “In some states, it is.” She paused, let her fingers linger briefly against my skin, then raised them, gracefully, like a pianist from the keyboard as the last note of a Beethoven sonata faded away.

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