Saturday, February 21, 2015

Making live

You were visually and audibly upset. It's as if someone had punched you in the gut. We watched death unfold in front of us in the cinema, a husband's anguish as his wife passes away before his eyes. I sat there, impotent. All I could do was stroke your arm, your chest. I did the best I could to comfort you after, sitting on your couch, touching each other as we sat waiting for J to finish cooking his latest masterpiece. I stroked your face, your nape, your hair. I kissed your arm. You reached for me over and over, stealing kisses when we thought J wasn't looking, or when he went into the toilet. Much later, watching your hands roam over my breasts, I remembered I had forgotten to buy protection. I toyed with the idea, not for the first time, of having you come inside me. Death creates this instinct, I suppose, an instinct to make life. But first, I have to make you live.

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