Party going

At a party, L and I sit at some distance from one another. I buy her a drink; we pass commonplace remarks to one another across others' heads, yet still each platitude seems to me to have extraordinary significance. Someone else is there, who, saying goodbye, kisses me fondly. In my arms this woman seems light, as if her skeleton were as hollow as a bird's, and as delicately warm as a pastry resting from the baker's oven. Few others ever felt like this, only L in that short embrace at a railway station, the hug that started all this so long time ago, and a few others. I wonder if L noticed?