(I’m sorry. I don’t know what the hell is happening with these. Also, if I pull a scrap of paper that has hair on it again next, I’m skipping it.)
In the bath, I find one of your hairs trapped under my breast. Really. I am sure, 100 per cent, it’s one of your hairs, even though the obvious thought ought to be that it is one of mine. What would one of your hairs be doing under my breast, three, four days, three, four showers after I’ve last seen you? No matter. I am sure it is one of your hairs, and I hold it as if it is something holy.
A relic of… not of you, but of our love, our past. Three days ago—four now—you were my lover, my most ardent love. We were were lovers for… how long? So long. And you teased me, the first time I said it, the last time—lover, my lover. So old-fashioned, you said. Lover. Nobody says lover.
I do. Lover. It is one of your favourite words. Boyfriend, girlfriend—those terms worked, maybe, when we were 12, 15, boys and girls. Now? Not so much. And are you—right now—a boy or a girl? Which one? Which one will you be tomorrow? And—partner? We can be partners in business. And perhaps sometimes, you, or I, will be partners with someone in life. But what you and I were—not boyfriend, not girlfriend, not partner. Lovers. We were lovers.
And it was so fucking sweet.
Until it wasn’t.
And now there’s just this stupid hair. What’s wrong with me? It’s not even that you broke my heart, left me.
I did that. Except I didn’t either, not really.
Three, four days ago, we were lovers still, locked in a passionate, filthy embrace. And then, suddenly… we weren’t. Did you feel it? Lust spent. Love diluted. Not gone, exactly, not immediately, just… what happened? You felt it—you moved off me just as it happened and rubbed your crazy hair on my face, neck, then chest—playfully, not lustfully—that’s when your hair must have gotten there, trapped under my breast.
Then you got dressed.
A signal our sex was over.
I got dressed. A signal our love was over?
I walked you to the door—at its threshold, a chaste kiss.
Nothing more said, done.
And now. Here I am. In the bath. Hair. Relic. Sentimental fool.
Regretful. But heartbroken? No.
Regretful that I’m not heartbroken? Was our passion as tepid, in the end, as this bath water?
I sigh. Release the plug from the drain, and your hair—I suppose it’s probably just mine, but right now, metaphor rules and truth doesn’t matter—from in-between my fingertips.
Down the drain.
But fitting, I suppose.
COME SEE ME:
M. JANE COLETTE: MORE THAN A GUILTY PLEASURE
Wednesday, February 1, 2017
Owl’s Nest Book Store
815A 49th Avenue SW Calgary
Romance and erotica as an antidote to cyber-porn. An evening of discussion.
Do you read romance novels apologetically, under the covers—secretly on your e-reader, so no one catches you at your guilty pleasure? Stop. And join M. Jane Colette, author of the steamy erotic romance Tell Me and the non-fiction essay collection on language and writing CUNT versus PUSSY, Alyssa Linn Palmer, author of noir romance and gay and lesbian fiction such as award-winning Midnight at the Orpheus, and members of the Calgary chapter of the Romance Writers of America in a spirited discussion of why reading (and writing ) romance and erotica is important in an age of plentiful porn. We promise, you’ll never look at ‘bodice rippers’ the same way again—and you might be inspired to start writing one of your own.
RSVPs are appreciated but not required. Contact@owlsnestbooks.com or (403) 287-9557 to reserve your spot… or show up at the last minute.
STARTING FEBRUARY 1 on da’ BLOG:
I’m thrilled to curate and bring to you
by YYC Queer Writers
For Nicole: Cardamom Knob Wool
For Jenn: Piano River Feather
For Lara: Peasant Cicada Pomegranate
For Paola: Stoked Sunrise Ferocity
For Nina: Crimson Brilliant Moon
For Cathy: Elated Chocolate Tears
For Lisa: Collar Forgiveness Wind
For Leslie: Train Clouds Mountain
For Grazyna: Anticipation Disappointment Hope
For Tet: Pills Chips Lotion
For Fionna: Crimson Ocean Dance
For Nina: Jaw Hair Voice
For Bella: Bike Muscles Beard
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