Faute de Mieux

I SAID TONIGHT This is such a cliched place to meet. Boy and girl in transit, we only rehash and reheat and you pulled up into a smile, smoothing down faint resignation with cracked lips.

Microwaves could do no better -

Your mouth shaped itself around dry-wry, and I caught a glimpse of the shiny fleshiness inside. Idly, I tried to recall the taste: wet? Cool? Stale? I could not find the memory; we kissed enough for the video to play back, play out (wear out) in my head.

Afterwards, I'd lean away slightly, I'd ask you, - What do I taste like?; and it destroyed me that you'd never answer seriously, only ever Like strawberries -

I never tasted of strawberries (I do not like them, you may not know that.) - What do I smell like, I used to ask; and you always buried your beak in my nape, told me Like strawberries -

I never smelt of strawberries (I do not like them, you do not know that.) What do I feel like, I once asked; and thankfully, you did not tell me I felt like a strawberry. (I never liked them, and you once knew my flank better than the number of steps from bed to bathroom, in the dark.)

I had, then, the oddest desire to ask you again, ask you and make you answer sincerely, - What did I once taste like? just to see if I could hear that same reply. If you would still answer the same, if you would answer at all. If you ever gave any thought to it, even years ago. But it was old heart-fracture (greenstick, a not-quite-break) on a cold metal bench, two people and ten minutes to fill before the 8:35 Limited Express.

- What did you do today? you venture, and I reply  Ice cream. It was a good day for iced cream. I was in St. Kilda.

There. A grin. You show a healthy amount of teeth and too much gum, the pinkness bleached down in the fluorescents, but say nothing.

- Not /that/ end of St. Kilda, I anticipate. And just for a moment, we fall into each other's heads just as well as we ever did. You had wanted to say something and I knew implicitly the tone (the turn of phrase), the twist of mouth (the cut and the kiss) and the tenderness (the gentleness that would belie the quip.) It was unfamiliarly familiar.

You're staring at me, wearing your forehead in a scrunch and an amused inquisition in your eyes. I think of a thousand things, like the tiniest things seem to stay with us or we only ever speak for lack of better and I still think of you, a little bit. I give voice to none of them.

In another world, you would have perhaps answered - There to conduct your disreputable affairs, I expect - and I would have faux-feigned offence-taken. Instead:

YOU SAID TONIGHT - In a different place and time, I would have said something then & I could not hear the words, could only see your face, your mouth, your hands; as pale and tender as the day I loved them.

suzette