Me and Dee and Thee

Dear Dee;

The sofa was pinching my back and I can’t sleep anyway so I’ll write this and put it someplace you’ll find it. I’m not complaining about the sofa, its not your fault that I got bumped off the bus at the border.

I’m looking at your bedroom door. Your cat Pooh is looking at your bed room door. Pooh looks at me. We want the same thing. To curl tight and clawful, rough tongued and nipping in your sheets. Cathy is down the hall sleeping in her little room, anesthetized by fruit loops.

I will see this door all my life if I do not put down this pen now and act. I will become a ghost who always must choose to be nice.

This afternoon, lying on the hill with you with pricks of blackberry brambles we told each other the stories of how we had lost our virginity, which somehow is not spectacular though it could be who would know? There is that memory worked by mirrors in you that will make your tongue go soft, your knees to loll and bubble with brawling kisses.

You were taken on a crested crooked vale of harp shaped hill on your back under of rustic shade and spell of windfall light protesting dutifully in broken Italian in the Tuscan sun which is young once only. The man said Italian men were the best lovers in the world as he lifted your bra and hung your white maiden flag of abject surrender on a branch above your chin, 32C. With tuneful turning mounted, high rumped and tar boiled bellowing rode you into womanhood as you looked past his humping shoulder counting the cracks in the bedroom sky and golden merry sun behind the shadow of your hand, the hair of his lurching legs tickling your inner thighs so that you had to hold your breath against laughing as he squeezed his eyes tight and stung into stillness rolled off your belly triumphant, uncircumcised ape. Forty seconds flat. The red flush had spread over your chest like a map of your inner world he was too dull to read.

This winding day when once you lay on your back with me as still as the sea on the rolling blackberry hill that is clear once only and I rolled over beside you on my elbow, a serpent striking distance calculating the right attitude with which to capture the bottom of your blue Mariners t shirt where it touches the top of your tennis shorts polite as a German and give it a lift, and the quick window of confusion in which to plant my lips flag on your startled belly. If I moved before you gained your senses I might have touched my tongue in your navel and tasted you there and if your hand swatted me away I would have stolen that gesture grandly for all my life.

And I lay and look, thinking as you watch the clouds of the unminding salmon sky the fork to the future laid bare and different paths lie tattered across your broad belly and you might say “Cathy is right down there!” and I would mutter licking into the thin line of hair that trails from your belly like an sign post to depths below “That’s not the same as saying no.”

And if you did nothing?

I would place my warm palm on the skin of your inner thigh and move it in a circle as the manuals say I should and mesmerize you numb eyed with pleasure and my other hand unsnaps the button of your shorts and there is a whiff like wakame from below the elastic and you would mumble from your deep trance to say “What are you doing to me now? What now? Whatever are you doing to me down there now?”

I’m watching the crack of your bedroom door, waiting with my will the wood to widen still more and more until your tousled head appears and you whisper the name of your faithful incubus and Pooh too. Leading lady like we out into the dark and the high hill always turning we might lay side by side always and look up at the simple stars and the stillborn crescent moon and begin, belly and button and kiss and smooth, gathering the light in your arms until you reach into your heaped discarded jeans and press a wrapped parable in my heaven proofed palm and say firmly “First, you have to put this on.”


C. Sanchez-Garcia