around my waist,

down my back.

Both hands,

squeezing,

sliding,

stroking.

It never ends,

this desire.

Not for me.

But Aura dreams of other hands.

In her sleep,

she whispers his name.

I wonder how much is hope

and how much is memory.

I don't want to know.

Because whether she sighs for the past

or sighs for the future,

she sighs for him.

"It's sooooo hot."

My sister, Siobhan, winds her hair

into a purple-streaked black knot,

then cranks up the car's air-conditioning.

I can't feel the breeze,

but the rattle and hum of the compressor

sound comfortingly normal

to this paranormal dude.

We're stuck bumper to bumper on the

Chesapeake Bay Bridge,

just like old times.

In the driver's seat,

Mickey turns the AC knob back down.

"It spits out hot air

when you put it on max."