Leaning In

They stripped for each other on Skype, and he did a simulated drum cymbals accompaniment with his tongue against his teeth as she tossed her bra, a bit of spittle shooting out. The years hadn’t been particularly kind. But they oohed and aahed nonetheless.
Later, with their clothes back on, leaning in so close to the screen their faces coned, they talked about their grown children. How, with his young daughter on his shoulders once at the circus, a man on stilts reached down to shake her hand. How she squealed through the magic. How he wished he had that photo. She told of her ex- husband’s obsession with huge cars. Especially Cadillacs. Their kids as props beside them. How he kept stepping back and back with his Polaroid, trying to fit them in, till the kids were nearly smudges— door handle-sized against them. Albums full. “Wow,” he said.
When the talk waned, they stretched out the cords of their Skype cameras and showed each other the natural light that pushed in through their respective windows. Thousands of miles apart. His light was a bit sunnier than her own. Her window, blocked somewhat by a fat cat and a stained glass fish dangling from the frame. There were streaks on his pane where rain had run down through the dust she’d never see. “Here, kitty- kitty,” he said, pointing past her. Leaning in even closer, misunderstanding, she said, “Meow.”