OONA/NO ONE

I wanted Oona in the morning. I could still conjure her slippery smoothness in my arms (and divergent cuppable breasts in my palms, where they left ghost trails of peach's weight), but Oona had kept dunning lights and pulling courtains, and dressing and undressing stealthly, while I was at the sink or refrigerator, or asleep. When I asked, Oona informed me she was too skinny to look at. She might even be invisible, she joked. After I looked clear through her I'd see there was no one there at all.
(Jonathan Lethem | Chronic City)