A hand curled around my calf muscle. Which doesn't sound like much but it is perhaps the context. It is the air electric with the hidden possibilities of flesh. it is the layer of clothing between the fingers and my skin. It is what is hidden and unspoken that elevates this small touch. It is to be touched, and yet to remain distant, leaning back, where I am not intimidated by the gesture. The round swell of my calf suddenly becomes the globe of my breast hung close and cradled in a palm. It is all one thing substituted for some other. It is a surrealist painting. It is the overwhelming throb of sex that makes me thick witted and slow to answer. My conversation becomes stilted and it is all because of my calf muscle which has suddenly become my breast. I am drunk in a way that reminds me of reading my books on philosophy. A sudden overwhelming of the senses. A bombardment of ideas each one crossing the next and my senses are lost in the maze of it. A burning giraffe, an egg that is an eye. A colour that has tone and texture and can be touched and listened to.
A whisper that I hear but do not respond to because they may be my words or they may be yours. This is a painting. This is an instillation. This is all my body revealed as in an x-ray. This is the fat curve of my calf cradled.
One time, before, so long ago I rested my calf on his ankle and he played a guitar and there was music and I could smell it and I thought it must be love or perhaps lust. But it was only music reverberating through my leg.
I remember that now.