I want to thank him, but dont know how, so I pat him like you do a baby. Then I feel like I'm laughing between my legs, and the laughing gets all mixed up with the colors, and I'm afraid I'll come, and afraid I won't. That streak of green from the june-bug light, the purple from the berries trickling along my thighs, Mama's lemonade yellow runs sweet in me. I begin to feel those little bits of color floating up into me-deep in me. I don't make a noise, because the chil'ren might hear. I take my fingers out of his and put my hands on his behind. Now I be strong enough, pretty enough, and young enough to let him make me come. Not until he has let go of all he has, and give it to me. That he would die rather than take his thing our of me. Not until I know that my flesh is all that be on his mind. My fingers and my feet hold on tight, because everything else is going, going. He puts his fingers in mine, and we stretches our arms outwise like Jesus on the cross. The bed springs sounds like them crickets used to back home. I wrap my feet around his back so he can't get away.
I stretch my legs open, and he is on top of me. Then I don't want his hands between my legs no more, because I think I am softening away. I want to grab holt of something, so I hold his head. He does, and I be soft and wet where his fingers are strong and hard. I pretend to wake up, and turn to him, but not opening my legs. I want him to put his hand between my legs. Then I don't want him to rub my stomach anymore. Then he will lean his head down and bite my tit. I want to pretend sleep and have him keep rubbing my stomach. I still don't move, because I don't want him to stop. If I don't move, he'll move his hand over to pull and knead my stomach. Then he lift his head, turn over, and put his hand on my waist. Maybe he'll shift a little, and his leg will touch me, or I feel his flank just graze my behind. I know just where the hair growth slacks out-just above his navel- and how it picks up again and spreads out. I want to rub my face hard in his chest and feel the hair cut my skin. I think about the thick, knotty hair on his chest, and the two big swells his breast muscles make. I sees the palms of his hands calloused to granite, and the long fingers curled up and still. Without touching him I be feeling those ridges on the tips of my fingers. I can see in my mind's eye his black arms thrown back behind his head, the muscles like a great big peach stones sanded down, with veins running like little swollen rivers down his arms. I hear him breathing, but I don't look around. I make out like I'm asleep, 'casue it's late, and he taken three dollars out of my pocketbook that morning or something. He used to come home easing into bed sometimes, not too drunk.
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