the Ineffable Pleasures of Patricia Highsmith’s The Price of Salt on the lips, and pleasure leaped in Therese again as if it were slipped her arm under her neck last night. I love you, Therese by the tingling and terrifying pleasure that spread in waves rushed suddenly, the length of her body. Her arms were tight of Carol’s hand that slid along her ribs, Carol’s hair that brushed widening circles that leaped further and further, beyond moments, words, the first darling, the second time Carol had her voice, moments of anger and laughter flashed like the distance and space, an expanding space in which she took an impossibly wide abyss with ease, seemed to arc on and still clung to Carol, that she trembled violently, and the arrow Carol’s head was close against hers. And she did not have to not have been more right or perfect. She held Carol tighter Therese lay still, looking at her, at Carol’s face only inches as if they retained some of the space she had just emerged the freckles, the bending blond eyebrow that she knew, the times before. ¶ ‘My angel,’ Carol said. ‘Flung out of space.’” 87 october 12–25, 2020 | new york ■
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