Getting Inside Her

        In the symphony hall, the crowd milled about in the lobby,
gradually filing through great double doors into the hall. The man
in the tuxedo patiently finished a cigarette off to one side,
casually watching the crowd. Suddenly, he straightened; someone had
caught his interest--a beautiful red-haired woman just his side of
the double doors. She wore a loose-fitting red sequined gown with
narrow shoulder straps, open to the small of the back. The neckline
plunged to the base of her sternum, giving him a wonderful view of
her ample breasts. Before he could even toss away his cigarette, she
was gone. Disappointed, he crushed it out and joined the dozens
awaiting entrance.

        An usher led him to his seat in the second balcony of the
cavernous hall. It was a good view, with the stage directly before
him. Only one thing was between him and the stage: the red-haired
woman. She was directly in front of him, and he realized this with a
sharply drawn breath. He did not attempt to speak to her, however.
Instead, with a content expression, he sat back, and gazed at her
while the orchestra began to play...

        He let his focus close in on her bare back, taking in the minute
details: the way her light skin pulled taught around the curve of
her shoulderblade; the fine wisps of almost ashen-blonde hair
protruding from her skin; the perfection of her pores, seeming to
widen to craters. Then he drifted into one, like a diver entering an
underwater cave. There was brief darkness, then dim light--
yellowish, as it was coming from the other side of her flesh.
Pulsing veins; fiberous strands of muscle, thick as suspension-
bridge cables; a muted rushing sound, like the noise in his ears
when underwater, while the orchestra hollowly played somewhere
outside; a blue, red, and purple conglomeration of tissues; a flood
of red, with white particles tumbling along as he passed through an
artery or large vein; almost immediately after, a large yellowish-
brown lung lined with grape-like growths, where rythmic, rushing air
drowned out all else; between the grape-ish clusters and back into
the familiar blue-purple-red; an ivory bridge of rib passed slowly
beneath; a wall of yellow glow, getting brighter. He exited through
a mole on her left breast--and continued... Gliding beyond the
balcony railing, remarkably like a ground-skimming helicopter
suddenly encountering the Grand Canyon. A sea of heads. The stage
and orchestra approached. Over the conductor's shoulder as he raised
his baton for a burst of music. Between the neck and strings of a
violin, frayed bowstrings beating the air around it. Between two
spitvalve-dripping trumpets. Over a cellist's music stand as he
flipped the page. Through the lens of his glasses for a second of
confused visual distortion. Skimming his cheekbone and elephantine
ear. On back. Closing in on a man by the tympani, who, about two
feet away, brought his arms up and together in a deafening
cymbalcrash, and all went dark.

-- © 1992, W.A. Seaver.