December 28, 2003
A Little Crazy
"I like it when you smile."
Your comment pulls yet more at my mouth.
"Well, that's good, seeing as you shouldn't like me when I frown."
"You're cute when you're happy. You're cute when you're sad. It's only when you're pissed off that I'm, like, 'Damn, she is digusting."
I splashed water on you, then. The bubbles were receding, our fingers wrinkling. Once out of the bath we tripped over the fallen shower curtain in the hallway, removing ourselves to your bedroom and Saturday Night Live. You turned on the news, and proceeded to kiss my stomach, your lips insinuating.
Does the newscaster turn you on, I wonder? Reports of flash floods, minor accidents on interstate 275?
Later we would lay tangled in the sheets, your fingers dancing across my back and arms as though they were at once guitar strings, steel drums, bass. You sang to me, in that half-talking way you have, of misdirected hostility, hives, and purposes. I would grin and bury my face in the pillow, only to lean up again and kiss you, tasting my own salt on your lips.
I feel something like seasonal today. It's 50 degrees, but I am resistant. I have taken the winter inside me, swallowed the ice to cool the heat burning in my belly, taken snowflakes for the shine in my eyes, that one you admire so much. I've robbed December of purpose, today, as you've robbed me of mine.
astera at 3:57 p.m.