The last time I see Shina Shiloh, she is, as always, flanked by captivated men.
There is a window between us. Rain glows gold as wine against the glass. There is a strand of Tibetan prayer flags strung up along the porch, and they shudder with each new burst of thunder. Sensual, somehow, like a dress lifted by a swell of breath.
There I am, inside. There is Shina, outside. Her back is to me. Her silhouette: a perfect hourglass. In that moment I can almost see invisible grains of sand funneling through her waist, as if the shape of her beauty is in it of itself a declaration that our time is limited. There is nothing to be done. Nothing to say. Frost was right-- Nothing gold can stay.
On either side of Shina is a cop. The one on the left is stout and stolid. His hand moves almost gracefully to rest on the butt of his night stick. There is a quiet intimacy to the gesture, as if he is seeking not a weapon, but rather the solace of lover’s hand. He laughs at something, lets his eyes rest impetuously on Shina’s breasts, and then meets the gaze of the other cop, the one on Shina’s right. This second cop must be less than half the weight of the first, and yet it is immediately apparent that he is the more formidable opponent. His body is taut and lean as a wire, and he is slow to smile.
Rain. Prayer Flags. Shina. The cops. Like a still from a film.
It is a moment I come back to again and again.
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