“I suppose this is the part where I tell you you need a woman to take care of you, and then I kiss you, and we take each other’s clothes off, as the camera zooms in on my thighs.”
“And?”
“Unzip your fly”.
Her lips moved with precision and passion. Her hands were long and thin, like pale spiders. Sometimes he thought they glistened in the moonlight, but then he realized it was her tears, which had slipped down to her fingers. He did not ask her why she was crying. She did not ask him why he interrupted every meal to pee.
Love has many forms, but every time they tried mapping their relationship onto the different structures from Lola’s French textbook: Present Indicative, Subjunctive, Past Imperfect, Future – none ever seemed to fit: Here her thighs curved to much to the left, there, his jaw jutted out of the page. “Maybe we are just a completely un-grammatical sentence, waiting to be punctuated.” “But if there’s no grammar, who says we need punctuation?” She could feel his words on her earlobe.
“Maybe our love is not a sentence. Maybe it’s a pile”, he said one day, looking at the mess of clothes and books and pans that lay in waves at their feet, as they curled up into a pillow that had been left on the floor the night before. “Maybe”, she said, and it occurred to him that the mess didn’t bother her at all, and that, maybe, bothered him a little. He kissed her shoulders. She purred. She had the loudest orgasms. “How do you know they’re not fake?”, his brother once asked. “Trust, me, I know”, he replied.
There is not much left to say for them, Lola Mcarthur and Michael Morgan, who lie blissfully in each other’s arms, not feeling the time slip like sweat beneath their armpits. The hurtful words, the broken dishes – these are all no more than the faintest shadows of nightmares, chiseled away with kisses that they think are stronger than iron. Let them sleep; soon enough they will awake to realities that remind them of the beauty of nightmares.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)