Miriam Feder home


Love by email

“Saturday sounds great. 4 at the theater and we can catch dinner in the neighborhood afterwards.” (And then…?)

Finalizing plans with an email—even the wee bit suggestive moments to come—utilitarian. But that doesn’t begin to tell you the way my heart leaps when your name pops into my inbox.

First my eye scans the missive for signs of love, lust, times and dates: the essentials for the ravenous Ms. Steamyheart and her personal organizer, Ms. Calendar. Then my slow eye comes back around to the beginning and takes stock of the whole. Is this a well made package shot full with desire? Word-finding, proofreading, tense correction… speak of time and connection. I look for eloquence, economy: words to melt the chill off heart and sheets. Does their richness defy time zones and exhaustion?

Your travelogues take me to seamy shopping streets in Asian capitals, customer calls that bleed patience and stoke frustration, technical forays that I can’t quite follow. I’ll come back to these journeys in a less urgent moment. But now I want ether-bound stories of heart and groin. They bring fire, even if they are simply fingers weaving the lust of the moment.

This intimacy is spellbinding to write and seductive to read; a glimpse of solo fantasy shared, uncut by my rhythm or our shynesses. Reserve that might stumble on our lips and ears if we were actually together falls away from fingertips-on-plastic locked in a sterile hotel room. Words torch heart, imagination, passion, miles from dirty socks and grim bosses. I revisit these long slow paragraphs of delicious provocation over and over.