A story I made up while sleeping: a woman, dark-haired, young like me when I was young, is with a man she likes, a stocky, hairy man who takes her hand when they walk along the water. I don’t know where they are. He takes her into a rehearsal hall. Now they are on Coney Island at the Yiddish Russian restaurant there. The boardwalk is cold and windy. It is winter. We eat borscht and peroshki, shots of vodka. We are tired from the windy walk, from the vodka shots. He takes me to a room with a bed and we lie down, not to make love but to rest. He takes off his shirt and pants because they are cold, damp from the sea air. We get under the covers and I lay my head on his hairy chest. D. has a hairless chest with a swatch of now grey hair where the sternum makes its dip between his pecs. I find this man comfortable and sleep, my legs wrapped around one of his.
I no longer know the meaning of betrayal. It is like a coin, two-sided.