And I, where had I been?I lie here, waiting. Waiting. Blanket kicked free, sheet beneath ruckedand rumpled and still warm. I lie, still burning after nearly leapingfree. The gauzy curtain dances, dances still. Billowing in a warm eveningbreeze, beckoning waves, inviting, inviting.What is it about a thread of pale white, loosely bordering emptiness,that makes a fabric meant for girls: Start here.Start with a memory of breezes though a bedroom window years ago,breezes carrying the sound of laughing voices in a summer night, formemories from long ago are where it always starts. Silver in the velvet dark, an echo of my cousins' sparkling, shimmeringdelight just a few hours before. Delight as my mother swept an ivoryband of lace from deep inside a cedar chest, so that it swirled throughthe sunlight air and then floated down like a mist onto her lap. Caughtby the fluttering of white, I'd stepped in from the hallway,unconscious that I had, just watching, just needing to watch. I saw. And yielding. She was drier in the morning, hotter too - internally I mean. At night she'd get real wet and wild, fucking Jolene after the sun went down seemed to be as much a contest, or a battle, as a coupling. At night she was demanding, insistent - she knew what she wanted (hell she knew what I wanted too) and she got it... more often then not.But damn, in the morning, pretty much any morning... man, for me that was the best. Sometimes she'd just throw a leg over me all casual-like, reach down between her legs take hold of old Howard (Ok, let me explain - I met Jolene at a bar across the street from a Howard Johnson's. I was pretty drunk at the time and kept slurring her name from Jay -lynne to Joel - ine, finally she said "Jo like Ho Jo, ya know, across the street." I told her I did know and escorted right across the street to the front desk, and got us a room. We just about broke the bed by check-out the next day. So she named my johnson "Howard", sometimes "Howie" when she was.
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