Crisp, by Meg Pokrass

You’d think he would take an afternoon tea break, what with his British accent, hungry face, slow eye movements. But no – he was averse to caffeine. The best way to wake up, he explained , was a brisk mile walk. I was getting used to his strong ideas.

Still – it confused me when he confessed that he hated to see a woman “bare”. I fiddled with my robe – tried to hide the crisp ice of my breasts. He liked to finger, not see, that was clear.

In the middle of the night I found myself in the kitchen slurping lemon yogurt with a fork. Perhaps I wanted it to feel wrong. I would braid my hair, slip quietly into the living room, hold the warm cat.