The backs of my hands in her flanks, rolling over, slowly, until my palms settle on the back of the hips, on the rises of the iliac crest: one of those places that call out for the palms; they fit there, like a sleepy child's head fits between shoulder and breast. I come to a complete stop.
Disengage cleanly, says David Lauterstein, often. Nothing worse than a handshake that just sort of indistinctly peters out. Shake and be done. And usually I agree with him. But sometimes I stop like this, for two or three full breaths. Sometimes the absence is a presence; sometimes the drumstick that doesn't fall is more audible and important than the one that does.
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