tagLetters & TranscriptsLover Come Home Ch. 06

Lover Come Home Ch. 06


Letter 6

Thursday, weather OK, but sky is cloudy

Dear V

Here are the reasons I am glad you are not here.

1. I get to take out the garbage. Good men always take out the garbage. I think it is some message they get from their fathers. Or perhaps it is a male secondary sex characteristic, like telling puns. Women don't take out the garbage unless they are alone or stuck with a stinker man. But I like taking it out. It must have some obvious deeper meanings. Bad, unnecessary or discarded stuff is leaving. What remains is good, needed, wanted. It might be coffee grounds, it could be old ideas. Anyway I am ridiculously proud of myself for having done the deed. Do you feel that way too? Is that why men take out the garbage?

It is, however, my only domestic deed. I'm living off the land again, like any bachelor. I eat if something appears and if it doesn't, I don't. The dust has settled and will not move again. I'm not home enough either to remove it or swish it around for another journey in the air.

2. I find I have strange energy. I hurl myself around, pillar to post, courthouse to pool, see friends, talk on the phone, long walks for Lucky, long books for me, and still I am not tired at night. Partly my old nervous energy returning. I am calmer with you than I am when I am alone. I also have begun to realize how much energy it takes to be together with someone, as I am with you. Paying attention is like burning. It creates and destroys at the same time. Without you I'm on a different plane of existence. It demands less of me so I have more casual energy to expend in daily activities. It's like being young and stupid again. I'm thrashing about doing a 100 things at once all the while trying to convince myself that they are all important. Not being young, I know in my heart they aren't.

Here are some of the reasons I want you to come home.

1. My body hurts. It wants you. It calls to you. It says touch me, take me, do not forget me.

2. My body needs. It has food and sun and movement. These are not enough for its continued health. It is beginning to wither, its hurts are cries for you.

3. My body demands. It gets angry, it wants to thrash out, it looks for help.

4. My body is all I have.

5. My body is you.

Damn my eyes. Damn you. Come home. Please.

More memories tonight. I ate out tonight with Michael (he sends his best). Something is wrong with him. He seems scattered and had none of his usual funny stories.

Eating with friends is good, but I seldom notice what is going in my mouth when I do. Too interested in what is being said, the socialness of it. When I am alone it seems too much trouble to cook. Eating alone is just refueling.

I only really like eating with you. When we eat together it is a kind of communion, though not the kind from our childhoods. Did you think of cannibalism when the priest gave you the dry wafer?

We share our food. I eat off your plate as easily as I do my own. But you always give me the choicest pieces. You like to see me eat, I don't know why, but I can tell that you do. You especially like it when I am really hungry and lusty for food. Is it that you enjoy seeing desire in me, even for something other than yourself?

We've never made love on a table, though I've seen it done in a movie. I can remember only a few kisses in a restaurant, after the cheese plate. Once or twice a toe may have slide up the inside of your leg, to tickle some sensitive part of your trousers. And we have traded some wine, from your sweet oaken casket mouth to mine. Not seriously, though. Usually I giggle which results in dribbling.

But in bed, in our long history, we have tried most of the food games that lovers imagine. Remember the dessert meant for Thanksgiving dinner? The chestnut mousse was judiciously placed in various places to be licked up and eaten. The obvious competition ensued as to who and what tasted better. Much taste testing and comparison was needed. I think you won. We dragged the mousse spattered sheets into the shower with us, and stamped on them like wine makers crushing grapes. We were still slightly frenzied. Mousse ran off us in brown rivers, heading for some distant home where chocolate and vanilla and chestnut reign.

This took so much time that the Thanksgiving turkey was cooked to dust and we wound up eating samosas and nam at the only restaurant open on Thanksgiving, an Indian one. The owner may have had nothing to be thankful for in his almost empty restaurant, but we did.

The eggs and tomatoes were much more difficult to deal with. I remember buying them fresh from a farm stand, and coming home to contemplate what wonderful food we might make with their earthy smelling ripeness. Excep you said something outrageous that demanded that I drop the ripest tomato on your head.

Amazing how easy it is to smash a tomato into someones face. Jimmy Cagney did it with a grapefruit but he was being mean. I was totally loving as I worked the soft inner parts into your cheeks. It gave you a nice blush. After that it was glorious. No holds barred at close range. Tomatoes and a few added eggs make a great gooey combination. The slippery white binds the more viscous red stuff into ones hair and body in an almost sublime way. Do scientists know this important fact? It took us a long time in the shower to find all the tomato seeds, and to scrub away all the yolk.

More anon, all this remembered warfare makes me sleepy. I will fall asleep thinking of your rosy cheeks, and the seed I wish you were planting in me right now.


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