Dear Ria....
It's morning and summer and cooking in the apartment. He mumbles in the morning a lot- the same way you might have in an attempt to pull all the greatest poetry ever contrived- from dream state through a needles eye into conciousness- into truth- into life. You can't hear it through, but you know if someone were to overhear it - it would be sheer brilliance and the key to every heart inthe world. But what he says, lying naked in the bed- wrapped in twisted white cotton- arms and legs jotting out everywhere 'Oh yeah that's it. RightRight. I couldn't remember why I turned this way; away from you'. And you ask for clarification because you kinda know this to be the hour the sublime subconcious peeps out. He repeats 'I was wondering, why I turned this way, but then I remembered...it's because of...the gulch' And with that being said, you really wake up now. Your eyes get big staring at the wall, staring at nothing, and you leave the hot room for a minute. Your brain starts chugging in wombanly ways. Was that a reference to the matress that sags- unaccostomed to the man weight? It drives you crazy too- or it a morning after metaphor? That word- gulch.
So you cast off the sheets, go to rinse the smoke, booze, and dried spit off your check, and set about making some tea. About the time the toast is jumping and the egss are tap dancing below the gurgling water, you see him sitting up out of the corner of your eye. One egg or two translates to: Good morning Precious. To: Time to get up now. To: Tell me about the morning. About last night. About this afternoon. 'Two' he says. These are the only sorts of questions you have for him that you don't already know the answers to. It's your own secret twin language that makes everyone believe you're dating ...or related. You both know the weight of words. Words like 'gulch'. And both of you are okay with that.
You scoop the eggs out of the boiling pot, and rinse the heat off under the smooth steady tap water.