In three days I will feel the weight and quality of bathing and lying in an almond grove. But a scrap of misery betrays my American ancestry, so I will serve an excellent red wine in generous tin cans.
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Last week she pulled together her history, drama, and email exchanges with me in a redux about a Venetian etching, where cherubs visited the graves of Ptolemy and Cassander. I thought it a poor description of our lives together. Then I pondered (this week) whether she was produced via donor insemination, or from whence she came.
Him: “Why?”
Her: “Because you must decide for yourself.” Him: “The sea is calm.” Her: “You know what will happen.” Him: “It looks unbelievably romantic.” Her: “Are you trembling?” Him: “I want to lay and watch the whiteness.” Her: “Oh sweet lemon tree!” |
Authorrunning the whole length of the horizon... Archives
April 2018
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