Lust is a deadly sensation. I stare at the back of her neck, bare where her close-cropped hair does not fall. She does not play the piano, but I am like Baines: transfixed - There are freckles on her skin. I want to kiss them. Join the dots with my lips on her skin. Lust is an inappropriate emotion. But there is a quiff of hair renegade above her fringe. And at this I'd almost cry. November, 1994 © Lela Kaunitz