March 01, 2006

The morning is an endless caress. Through half-opened eyelids you look like a soft, mysterious creature, a monkey maybe, and I yearn to touch your skin to make sure you’re real. And then our hearts throb, and our fingers and mouths madly seek hair and moist crevices as though we only have a single moment left to live. You make me want to die slightly all over your bed.

Later, you shake sleep and sweat from your eyes and put on your pink bathrobe. You make me get up with promises of coffee and breakfast, but all I want to do is hide under the covers with you. But we eat, and go hand in hand to see Indians instead.

You photograph everything. “Look! A collection of outrageous skulls. Look! Nakedness.”

“Not saggy enough,” I say. We are happy, cold, and in love with bear claws.

In the evenings, we go see our friends on stage. They speak Russian, and somehow managed to get all the best parts in the play. We laugh with joy and cry with boredom. I reach out in the darkness of the theatre to touch your skin. Your lips taste like Mennonite pie, delicious, wholesome goodness.

And all I want to do is to turn all days into Saturdays filled with Indian warmth.