She pushes me across inside the room and strips off my shirt. I want to move towards her but she doesn’t permit it. She touches the newish muscle on my chest, fingers curious and exploratory. I suppose I was that much thinner when she knew me. I was younger. Her hand traces lower: butterfly fingers on my hip, my stomach. She moves closer, lets her hair touch my shoulders, runs her mouth along the skin. It is not a kiss, but the thing that comes before a kiss in the evolution of sex, the way a dinosaur comes before a bird.