After six months, Georgia was in his arms, and it was their bodies more than their minds that understood, because his hands remembered all of her.
It reminded him of being a boy, at the beginning of each summer when he would ride his bicycle for the first time though the forest path. He was sure he'd forgotten all its bends. Or the rocks, depressions, and curves where he grabbed a tree to make the turn. But he always did; it was were not something he recognized as much as felt.
Through their slow rhythm that night, when they took our time, Georgia rose to him like the path: the freckled landscape of her skin with islands of untanned white, her fine red hair, her perfume that he grew to like, and the quick excitement in her voice as she pulled him to her, as he smelled her breath and felt her nose around his face.
Those same summers, his row boat was like his outer body, the oars extensions of his arms. On the pond the wind pulled on the bow, the waves slapped against the side, like it was happening to him. He rowed to a small island in the lake where he learned each exposed tree root in the sand, the shore of rounded stones, the ebb and flow of water in the grasses.
He hadn't been out there in twenty years, but he would remember it the way he had his lover. All of it together, the clicking reeds, the prevailing wind, the goose bumps on his arm.
In the morning he showered what remained of her off his skin. Their careers were taking them far apart.
But the joy he felt in her the night before, his hands brushing the moles on her shoulder, her holding him tight then tighter, the cadence of her hips, had become a shape and a motion in him, that once he knew, he discovered that he memorized.
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