Time to Settle Accounts
April 29, 2011: To last a lifetime.
In the morning, you emailed work and said you’d be in for your 1 p.m. Monday meeting, and we stayed in bed and laughed and talked and made love and I gave you a back massage and whispered in your ear. You rested your head on my chest, and when we woke again it was noon and your head hurt and you said you wished you didn’t have to go to your meeting as I rubbed your head through your locks.
“You know what I do in these times?” I asked you.
“What?” you said.
“I remember them.”
“Uh huh,” I said. “You know when you think back to a happy time, you’re at work and bored and you think back to the middle of a vacation or a childhood birthday party or a first kiss or something, you know?”
You smiled. “I know.”
“So you close your eyes and you try to smell the memory. Try to see everything and hear everything, try to rub your hands through your lover’s hair again, try to feel the sand beneath your toes again, try to taste the cotton candy at the 4th of July carnival in 1991. That’s what I do right in the moment.
“Like now: Do you remember the Monday morning where we woke at 6:30 and talked and kissed, and you emailed work and said you’d be in for your afternoon meeting? Remember, we rolled around and laughed, and I gave you a back massage, and you fell asleep on me after we finished. Remember?”
“I remember,” you said.
“Close your eyes right now, and imagine us in bed together,” I said. “Can you see us?”
“I can,” you said.
“Now open them.”
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