Moving Bodies There's no one else home, so you walk around your large house from room to room and around again, touching familiar objects, touching yourself, humming, thinking thoughts that disappear as soon as you think them. Your body feels well-muscled and sleek under your new clothes, and you think about that, too, as you walk around, think about how strange and distant your body sometimes seems to you, how deeply its functions fascinate even as they distance you from it, your body, the only ground you're sure your self knows, if indeed it knows anything at all. And right now in a distant city, in an office at the top of a glinting skyscraper, a woman you wouldn't even recognize remembers how you danced one mid-winter afternoon, by yourself in the middle of a waxed gymnasium floor, to the Spanish music from the janitor's transistor radio, how you twirled and smiled and then looked across the gym at her, suddenly embarrassed, turned and walked away. And she looks out her window, down across the city, and she sees you clearly, the way you turned away, and she feels again the urge to run after you, to grab your arm, to ask you please to dance with her. And even as she thinks of you, whose name she's probably never known, you hear a salsa melody, you start dancing in your living room.