She wonders about his transatlantic flights and whether they were like hers, the magic of hands finding new genital configurations: how penises would flare, how insects stream in the near distance of the green tunnel, how traffic looks from a window thirty stories up in a hotel called Mondrien , how sushi tastes when first the tentacles of squid or scallops are lightly pressed against a breast or the nape of one's neck, when all the world is an O and everyone owns a tongue.
Travelling is like storytelling--being at the edge of something--it is like the coming of night where lies can be told because there are strangers and no one can see your eyes. You desire fusion.
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