Strange things, memories. She'd forgotten the lovemaking. Only her hair
remembered the hours her lover's fingers had spent undoing knots.
Her feet remembered how they felt tickled when he kissed them, and how he had commented on the colour of the nail polish. "Lime green".
She could still summon the sensations on her midriff, that his linen shirt had first caused; but not the feelings when they first kissed.
She remembered his skin had felt coarse around his chest. She remembered he said he had been burnt as a child. But nothing about the ecstasy.
Here he was, with her, in parts. His love, in fragments. 'Memories are strange things', she concluded.