By Paul Beckman
On the inside of her thigh was a mole. The mole was brown and prominent. From the mole rose a singular hair. The singular hair was long and grey. She didn’t know about the mole or the hair. It was not on a part of the thigh she could see from her mirror or when she lay in the tub or when she dressed or undressed.
I, on the other hand, could see it from our love-making vantage point and when I saw it I could think of nothing else, so I made up a reason to stop seeing her.
“I write because I can’t color within the lines.” – the writer