Saturday, February 21, 2015
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.