Amanda Laughtland
	December I suggested a bit of walking to let our breath chill in front of us in the air. She talked like a kettle steaming the walls in a close kitchen. Warm and willing, I kept walking, rubbing my hands, knowing she'd draw them into her pockets. In Public Grasping the lapels of each other's jackets until the noise of other people broke us apart, we stepped away, a little torture, a lot of glances, fingers accidentally brushing. I'm not very good at this. To be honest I'm a bit out of practice. I swallowed, my mouth gone dry. Her voice in my ear, in a whisper: Not here. Flashback My baby-dyke years, my first potluck--all vegetarian dishes all homemade, and all I’d brought was a big box of cookies. A brunette yelled, Oreos!, and I remembered holding handfuls of grain on my uncle's farm, plenty for every nuzzling mouth in the warm rush of bodies.