he cut himself shaving. the morning he got lost on the way to waterloo station. they met at the fish and chips shop.
the best fish and chips she'd ever had. she'd said.
but not that afternoon. she asked him to write her a love letter. and he took the rock from his mouth. to lay glinting like a dog's eye in the palm of her hand.
but how is this a love letter?
and he asked her how love feels. but didn't say anything about the solid space. the unique pattern. scape. the weight of the stone in the palm of the hand. on the tongue. the cool forgiveness. the way the shape and sense can be memorized and recalled in the mind. on the skin. the non-verbal. the fact that he'd wrenched exactly that one from the thousands of others. claimed it from the rest of the world as an exchange between. hers. his. impenetrable and theirs.
this is just a rock she said.
bored and resigned.
where did you get it? she asked.
and he said from out of the empty pocket of my mouth. where she touched her fingertips to his lips. then to the rock. and said the word rock and lips out of her mouth into the empty afternoon sunshine. she threw the rock into her purse, said goodbye, and went home. he caught the train to neasden. sat in the garden and watched the cat chase moths into dusk. made dinner and watched the television until it was time for bed. between the sheets he rolled his wrists in counterclockwise motions. twice each. and was sure that, with a little courage and time, some day she would make someone a very fine paperweight.