When she lived in Japan,

she cheated on her boyfriend with
an Australian man. His name
was Barry. He loved to
smoke and talk about politics.
He was dating someone else too, a sculptor, whose
white hands were like marble.

She was not a sculptor. Instead,
she pulled long skirts of her not-fat
hips. Years later she would
hate them, but noncommittally, and only
in private.

You’re so sexy, Barry would
whisper while grazing her ear,
holding her dark hands, but
it doesn’t make sense, does it?
She grew to appreciate that
about herself: that she was only sexy if you
knew where to look, which parts to
handle with care and
which stories were best left unread.

When she lived in Japan, the light
wasn’t as harsh, she wasn’t yet
married, she wasn’t yet
old, but she wasn’t really
young, either.
The smell of coffee and dancing,
the sculptor’s boyfriend’s hands on her waist:
that was all the sedation she wanted,
or needed.