Previous |
Next |
December 26, 2008, 07:08 PM ET
Boxing Day, Thirty Years Ago
“Forget about washing your face” he said, “And come to bed.”
He was holding my face in his hands. I was thinking, now we were alone, “Eight hours on the plane, and I must look like hell; he hasn’t seen me in four months; my mouth is a lint filled dryer and if I throw my arms around his neck he’ll smell thirty weeks of tears, he’ll smell my fear, my craving for him, and that one-way ticket bringing me like a homesick angel to Heathrow today? It will be a joke.”
His voice was husky when he said again “Come to bed” but this time he rubbed his cheek against my neck when he said it. I felt the heat of his breath, smelled his worry, tasted his moist, afraid mouth, and so stinking and grinning and sweating we fell, wrapped together like ribbons untied into Boxing Day.
Add Your Comment
Commenting is closed.