Saturday's Storyteller: "She read me like Braille."
by Belinda Roddie She read me like Braille. Her fingers danced across my shoulders and arms, caressing every mole and every goosebump and every random sprig of hair that rose from my puckered skin like a sad stalk of black grass from a smooth desert of brown flesh. Soon, her palms began to navigate the creases of my hips, the spider webs of stretch lines weaving across my torso like they were actually alive and bristling with sunlight, golden and warm against my lover's hands. She did not have to touch my face to know that I was crying. She did not have to sense my body shaking against hers to understand my sadness. "Some day," she whispered to me, her teeth almost grazing my ear lobe, "you'll come to understand how wonderful of a person you really are." That night, lost in the cushions of my father's old couch that I had stuffed into my depressing apartment, was the last night I saw Sasha for nearly six years. She had been twenty at the time;