As the rough and frigid waters overtook me, no, I saw no white light of god, I saw my feral Slavic goddess. Mocking me? Rooting for me boldly? I could no longer actually tell. For a cold and flowing liquid salt deluge would perhaps soon inundate my trachea.
Goldy, should I call you that in public, cheapen you a little with banal Americanization, maybe I should try. But, still I’ll never forget you, and I dear suggest you will always call me by my real name. No cutesterisms, subterfuges or ethno vernaculars!
I will tell you what beautiful nakedness looks like! Jesus of Christ she’s lying there in my bed and my eyes lock with hers, it’s so hot. The ghetto loft, the rolling of inbound and outbound trains rumble like the waves that last killed me. It is all like a dusk time dream, her blond hair lioness mane on my pillows, her buxom defiance and he eyes. Well her tits her tits and her eyes, for I am man. And the sweat rolls off us both, the loft is a bake box. I just cooked her paella, we put away almost whole bottle of 1,000 Stories, there’s proverbial blood on my lips, “Recite me one of Adelina’s poems!” A most curious and un-intimate request, as there are over 99 poems written to the tune of her being. And only maybe six for the woman that I loved after she vanished into another man’s arms, and I into grim two year exile in the provinces. The cold empty provinces, with angry white peasants, where it snowed for two years, “I want to here your best poem for her!”
The wine took places each time that were nearly loving. Drugs and electronic dance music would kill everything every time, she was not trying hard. She was not trying ever to be in this space, this life we lived in the foothills of the city. Nearly starving in the shadow of plenty.
She lies there, not mine or anyone’s. Half naked in my bed. I am no longer even paid in occasional kisses, I am paid in time, for since the night we met, the night she almost killed us, the second nights we met, oh three years ago maybe; she passed to me a little note after sleeping in my arms for two nights in a forest, in the badlands of warehouse district; he note said, “Sad that it will end.”
And it had ended many, many times before. There is music that plays in my head and I hum to it, to focus. To bring myself back from the clouds, from the war effort, from the targets, from the evil we fight; I hum and I rush back into my body. “Reset,” she whispers. Whenever she notices me do that, she loves only mind, if she loves even that.
“You are the smartest man I know, you’ll figure out what to do,” she once said, she is the one who convinced him to go into exile to acquire the resources for his, shall we say doomed campaign of insurgency.
“Reset,” she whispers looking, dripping, wine her lips, pale skinned perfection, everything he’s ever wanted in a partner forever, reset. That little hum he makes has only been noticed by one woman before, which was Adelina Blaze. Bringing his wildest ambitions back to his body.
“One of her poems? Why?”
“I just enjoy you making performances, we need not be sentimental. Go on,” Goldy says.