The lines of her muscles seemed to run at cross purposes. The chest rippling into her armpit like mad water running over a gorge. In order to mount her, I have to raft my way to the left of her hips; the current will carry me there. Or her perfume.

But I am stopped at bridge after bridge. I bring too much cargo. I am weighed down. I will sink to the bottom if I don’t unload. Very, very soon, I must unload.