The illusory comfort of smallness finds me draped over porcelain, knees cold on porcelain, porcelain everywhere. I am suddenly aware of how skin touches skin, aware of how we might spend a lifetime shrinking to fit cheek in hand, in love or lust or anger, without ever knowing the difference. We might spend all of our time searching the distance between brittle bone and breast -- little though it may be -- smaller still, smaller, to excavate the tendrils of veins visible beneath. He grabs my wrist and situates me so we might sit palm-to palm, dirty fingers curled to rest over yellowed nails as if to say *look how small, smaller still*…