magnificent,
you’re something else’, and from there my thoughts drifted to the
restorative moments, the cigarettes we smoked following each poisoned bubble of silence,
or during our conversations over a cup of coffee from the thermos (we would escape from
bed naked and desecrate the kitchen table), when she would try to describe to me the
confused experience she had when she came, always mentioning my confidence and boldness
as I conducted the ritual, scarcely hiding her surprise at how I would repeatedly enlist
God’s name in my obscenities, telling me above all how much I had taught her,
especially about an awareness of the act through our eyes that often followed, stone by
stone, each stretch of a convulsing road, and that was when I would mention her
intelligence, which I always praised as the best thing about her in bed, an agile and
active intelligence (even if only when I pricked her on), exceptionally open to all
incursions, and that would lead to me talking about myself too, fascinating her with the
intentional (and not so intentional) contradictions in my character, teaching her among
other lies that I, the bastard, was pure and chaste, and, there with my eyes closed all
this time, I was still thinking about many other things while she was out of the room,
since the imagination is very quick, or its time is different, and it uses and
simultaneously confuses separate and unexpected things, when I discerned her footsteps
returning in the hall and only had time to open my eyes and check that my feet were
positioned correctly, poking out of the bottom of the sheet, noticing as so many times
before that the brown hairsthat sprouted on my instep and longer toes
gave them both grace and gravitas, but I made sure I quickly closed my eyes again,
feeling that she was about to enter the room, and already sensing her fervent form
nearby, and knowing how things would start, which is: she would softly, ever so softly,
come up to my feet, which she had once compared to two white lilies.
The Rising
It was already half past five when I said to her
‘I’m going to jump out of bed’ but she wound herself around me like a
creeping vine, her claws closing where they could, and she had claws on her hands and
claws on her feet, and a thick, strongly smelling birdlime over her whole body, and
since we were almost grappling each other I said ‘let me go, little
bindweed’, knowing that she liked it when I spoke that way, so in response she
said, feigning solemnity, ‘I won’t let you go, my grave
Cypressus
erectus
’, her eyes beaming with pride at her impressive repartee
(although there she wasn’t well versed in botanical matters, even less so in the
geometry of conifers, and the little that she dared flaunt concerning plants she had
learnt from me and nobody else), and in the knowledge that there are no branches or
trunks, however strong the tree may be, that can resist the advances of a creeper, I
tore myself away from her while there was time and slipped quickly over to the window,
immediately raised the blind and felt on my still warm body the cold, damp air that
started to get in the room, but even so I leant on the sill and, deep in thought, saw
that outside the day was barely starting to stretch its limbs under the weight of a
thick fog, and I also noticed that, no more than sketches, the zinnias in the garden
below were struggling to push up through the smudges of smoke, and I was at the window
like this, my eyes on the top of the hill opposite, on the spot where the Seminary stood
dimlyin the fog, when she came up behind me and again wound herself
around me, slipping the rope of her arms brazenly around my neck, but with skill I,
using my elbows gently, kneading her firm breasts a little, was soon sharing the prison
I was in with her, and, side by side, entwined, the two of us gradually interlaced our
feet and that was how we went straight to the shower.
The Shower
Under the shower I let her hands slide over my
you’re something else’, and from there my thoughts drifted to the
restorative moments, the cigarettes we smoked following each poisoned bubble of silence,
or during our conversations over a cup of coffee from the thermos (we would escape from
bed naked and desecrate the kitchen table), when she would try to describe to me the
confused experience she had when she came, always mentioning my confidence and boldness
as I conducted the ritual, scarcely hiding her surprise at how I would repeatedly enlist
God’s name in my obscenities, telling me above all how much I had taught her,
especially about an awareness of the act through our eyes that often followed, stone by
stone, each stretch of a convulsing road, and that was when I would mention her
intelligence, which I always praised as the best thing about her in bed, an agile and
active intelligence (even if only when I pricked her on), exceptionally open to all
incursions, and that would lead to me talking about myself too, fascinating her with the
intentional (and not so intentional) contradictions in my character, teaching her among
other lies that I, the bastard, was pure and chaste, and, there with my eyes closed all
this time, I was still thinking about many other things while she was out of the room,
since the imagination is very quick, or its time is different, and it uses and
simultaneously confuses separate and unexpected things, when I discerned her footsteps
returning in the hall and only had time to open my eyes and check that my feet were
positioned correctly, poking out of the bottom of the sheet, noticing as so many times
before that the brown hairsthat sprouted on my instep and longer toes
gave them both grace and gravitas, but I made sure I quickly closed my eyes again,
feeling that she was about to enter the room, and already sensing her fervent form
nearby, and knowing how things would start, which is: she would softly, ever so softly,
come up to my feet, which she had once compared to two white lilies.
The Rising
It was already half past five when I said to her
‘I’m going to jump out of bed’ but she wound herself around me like a
creeping vine, her claws closing where they could, and she had claws on her hands and
claws on her feet, and a thick, strongly smelling birdlime over her whole body, and
since we were almost grappling each other I said ‘let me go, little
bindweed’, knowing that she liked it when I spoke that way, so in response she
said, feigning solemnity, ‘I won’t let you go, my grave
Cypressus
erectus
’, her eyes beaming with pride at her impressive repartee
(although there she wasn’t well versed in botanical matters, even less so in the
geometry of conifers, and the little that she dared flaunt concerning plants she had
learnt from me and nobody else), and in the knowledge that there are no branches or
trunks, however strong the tree may be, that can resist the advances of a creeper, I
tore myself away from her while there was time and slipped quickly over to the window,
immediately raised the blind and felt on my still warm body the cold, damp air that
started to get in the room, but even so I leant on the sill and, deep in thought, saw
that outside the day was barely starting to stretch its limbs under the weight of a
thick fog, and I also noticed that, no more than sketches, the zinnias in the garden
below were struggling to push up through the smudges of smoke, and I was at the window
like this, my eyes on the top of the hill opposite, on the spot where the Seminary stood
dimlyin the fog, when she came up behind me and again wound herself
around me, slipping the rope of her arms brazenly around my neck, but with skill I,
using my elbows gently, kneading her firm breasts a little, was soon sharing the prison
I was in with her, and, side by side, entwined, the two of us gradually interlaced our
feet and that was how we went straight to the shower.
The Shower
Under the shower I let her hands slide over my
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