The Spaces Between

Bone on bone, ligament to ligament, sac-tissue and sinew and washer’s clothe; her hips sung round her hipbones trucking the fall of her dress. She seldom wore skirts or slacks or anything that outlined the skirl of her waist, indented and Druid like a stonemason’s rake. The man in the hat dreamt of her, the soft talc of her skin, the button of her nose and the spaces between her toes, the womanhood of womanly women. He has fantasies about her teeth, incisors and bicuspids, those hard to reach molars, Dentyne chewed flavorless, whiter than farina, and Black cat gum blacker than any black cat. What’s bread in the scone, rhubarb and field-berry, anis and clove, Epsom and Leeds; and that tingly tingle on the cup of the tongue, such sweet treacle. He dreamt of scuppers and chutney, shallots and fluke of garlic and roe, and these wee little mints that made all the sourness and scorn flee and fled; happenstance and too-tight shoes with wrap-round laces and eyelets circlet with copper and uncharitable silver backing. ‘The sky is falling’ said the man in the hat. ‘So it is, so it is’ said the shamble leg man.