gone

It is the one curve on her body that he remembers. Her cheek. Her breast. Her stomach. He has an idea about those. But this one he knows. It is the part, the place, as she lay flat, between the small of her back and the back of her thigh. He remembers the times, moving his hand across the curve, as if trying to make it an indelible memory, in which he may have succeeded, which sometimes brings a gentle smile to his face. It is not a sexual memory, though it could be; the sex they had was wonderful. It’s more a knowing, a comfort, a beauty, a calm. It’s the kind of feeling some might liken to coming home. Perhaps that’s why he misses it so. It was like that, and he’s away now.