24 JULY 1993, Page 26

A Dangerous Age

He lifts up her face and she lets him, she lets him smooth it like a finely rumpled sheet, stroking out from the eyes, their dusty corners, down the cheek, easing ten years away for a moment. Forking lifelines wait in the grain of the skin as if scribed by a 5H pencil.

Rub gently, rub hard; held to the light the traces show.

It's a dangerous age.

No wonder our grandmothers taught us to put it away like the guests-only china so thin it held shadows. Not old but not young, these two tread the cusp, a narrow ridge track, breathing quick from the risk like thinned air, touching at a time like this just to steady themselves, for safety, though they know there's no such thing.

Philip Gross