“How the Collage Artist Loved the Ballerina” by Genevieve Goffman
He loved her as though, to lover her, had been so tacked to his very nature, so stuck to his heart that heart and heart’s love were one thing as natural as the slicing of a blade. It was a holey honest love all deceit cut out. He loved her honestly, because she was beautifulperfectly shaped by the exacting strokes of her dark eyed dance instructorsHow could the collage artist love the ballerina incomplete? Loving her was like sliding scissors through tissue paper. A temptation too great to hold them balanced on the edge.
He had to cut in and once in he had to cut all the way through. So, with all of his love, the collage artist had to love all of the ballerina and he loved every fraction of her with every fraction of his love. Every strand of golden hair, Every white finger, each slender arm, individually each round breast and nipple, both gentle lips, both large moist blue-eyed eyeballs, every little freckle on both her dollâ€™s cheeks, and between them, still warm, her small red tongue, he loved them all and with all his love he placed every one on one on his new canvas, smiling like a man in love.