She wrapped herself in words.
Nightly, spiraling around her mid-thighs was “hunger,”
“desire,” “euphoria.” A thick,
invisible font moved across her skin with a caress pressed between tickle and
electricity. The scrape of
hard-edged uppercase immediacy was quickly soothed by smooth, suppling
lowercase languor. The words moved
up her legs, across her belly, spread the breadth of her back and held steady,
finally, in ecstasy at the base of her neck.
Other words trapped her by day. “Drive,” “responsibility,” and “deadline” pinched her
shoulders together and furrowed her brow.
They skated up her spine with the sound of sharp torture across a
chalkboard and came to rest, painfully, just behind her forehead. New demands from clients and bosses
pressed her between survival and sanity.
This was her wardrobe: clothed in business or naked in
rapture. The words assaulted and
exalted her. They clipped and
spread her wings in turn.
