The boy wants the girl, but she is not on a to-do list, she is not on a christmas list, she is not on a grocery list. His desire is command-line, base-level, bypassing, autonomic yet insistent. He wants the girl and it is all he knows and yet he also does not know he wants her.
She is not a bottle of detergent. She is not on a manifest. She is not on a bill of lading.
The girl wields her antipathies and her friendships with easy boisterousness. The girl does not proceed like the clawing frightened girls who find their flower and pick it, hold it trembling in a gilded wilt before them as they run as though they run carrying an olympic torch.
The girl knows that love is not like power lifting. It is not coming in first. It is not getting ahead.
Love and sex are in the hips, in the hips and the ass, in the easy downward tug of the breasts, the tug on the eyes, on the breath.
Sexy is in the breath inhaled and made sweet, on the cigarette inhaled deeply. Sexy is in the breath exhaled and made perfect.
The boy acts without knowing himself. He is not at play, he is not at work, he is under no code of obligated conduct. Her shape is cast in old maths, she is an anoetic idea. He tells her that he wants her, and there is no failure.
If she remains unflappable there is no failure, no anamnesis calling them to their reservation at the tables of the concrete and away from the worship of her breathing, yes or no.