She fed me three kinds of vegetable dishes. We railed against the order of things.
I slurped my soup, she wiped the table. The sameness of our gestures.
A number of unmentionable thoughts mentioned between us. Unmentionable, because you will most likely disagree.
Perhaps, I said, it is biological. Meaning, the womb.
The facticity of our creation, she nodded.
We understood, though we dared not look at, each other. As though we had betrayed one another by considering the question that is the body that she herself had bequeathed me.
The sadness that is also communion.
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