You know when your lover is late waking up, and springing out of bed there’s that flow of thick current that follows her body around like a pinprick? Your face is buried in the pillow and she’s tottering around with chores. She’s flustered. You’re dallying. She’s angry. You’re sleepy. She says, ‘Why?’ You say nothing. She says, ‘Hey?’ You smile. She: ‘I’m serious.’ You: ‘Hold me,’ and she does and lets out a laugh and comes to the bed but repeats, ‘I’m serious.’ Holding her close, you realize she’s just gotten out of the shower and you bury your face in her chest and stuff happens. It happens on the inside—a slow turning of gears—and having not addressed her point she repeats, ‘Hey,’ but you my friend are somewhere else.
Among cherry peels and orange blossoms, dark chocolate and raindrops. You’re in a place where the language is ‘sighs’ and ‘breaths.’ This is amazing! A disastrous situation averted—and it’s hot cause she doesn’t, but she does, and you’re in, and you’re really in, and she’s talking, but it’s still in sighs and she’s tapping you on the shoulder but it’s still in breaths—you’re in, and it’s never felt this good and…. She. Is. Still. Talking. It’s sounding a lot more like vowels and the sighs are cohesive and you recognize that language as English. The English is not playful or encouraging but a maintained annoyance and you thought you were having ‘angry’ sex, but she’s the only one angry and you’re the only one having sex, and now she is pissed and you are being smacked in the head; you are dumbfounded, she is disturbed, and the word ’sorry’ is stuck in the back of your throat. Yeah.
I don’t know what that’s like either.