non, je ne veux parler avec toi... encore

I got your last message. It doesn't sound like you're going to miss me too terribly, which makes me feel just terrible. Maybe I misunderstand. I'm feeling punky and alone anyway. Anyway - You always said I get in "these moods" so maybe I am in one. The trees are black against the white sky here. Is it like that there? Probably just grey concrete from where you sit anyway.

I can't understand why you can't just be more definite. I do miss you. I know it's hard, but you seem just fine with it all. It's harder for me. You make me think it is anyway. I never used to feel this way. Now I'm really upset. I shouldn't be, but I am. I don't want to talk about this anymore. No, don't call. Je ne veux parler avec toi maintenant parce que je suis tres triste et confuse, la situation - toute - c'est tres difficule pour moi... pour toi... tu as ton femme. Ca va. Elle ... tu sais le mot je pense.

Ca va,

c.

don't worry!

Hey, listen, we'll sort something out. We've been patrolled before, right? Listen, it's been years now right? You seem upset and I hate that. Don't be. Try not to be. I keep trying to reassure, but I feel like I'm falling flat. Will you take this flower? I know you're strong. I know you're fragile. You are both - ...and she breaks... but listen, even if we do have to wait, so we wait.

Also, remember, I always find a way to you, don't forget. How many times have they put us at opposite ends (of everything - the house, the table, the country, the ocean, everything,) and you must notice that I always find a way to be next to you. I know you do because our feet always touch and I always bump my knee against yours.

I want you to come - try to come. Do what you can. It's not fair that .... is being. What ... is saying is no more than an excuse and while I don't blame, it's jealousy, but we are careful and you have made your peace with his... and that is all. To have something entirely your own is fair. You are right in that. This is why you feel no guilt. Nor should you. It's a double-standard (which I did warn you of, and I'm not saying I told you so - truth is, cousin, we should have just married and moved to Morocco - in our faith, first cousins can marry - it's even written. On top of that, I'd get to make love to you every Friday; I'd have to! That and more!

Really - listen, you were crying on the phone and I hate that. Don't cry. We'll sort it out.

Go blow your nose. Make some herbal tea. Have something soothing from our "B" spoon, I'll do the same and I know it's not the same, but at least we'll be tasting the same thing. At least I'll know what your mouth would taste like right now, and that is good.

For the record, by the way, yes, I do remember leaving you trempee (I'm not in the least sorry). I remember long afternoons stealing off to the orchard with you and lifting your summer slip - surely you haven't forgotten that, have you? Do you remember your branch in the pear tree? It was 'yours' since you were little. You climbed it and straddled it for as long as I could remember, taking with you a basket of raspberries that you picked. You rocked and rocked until the bark was smooth. You rocked that bark between your legs so innocently, so sweetly, not even knowing. Sweet. Don't forget how sweet you are. Don't let... take away that sweetness. Don't be angry or bitter. We'll be together. Write here. Write a lot. I'll write a lot too.

How is the research coming? Is the lab a mess? Any breakthroughs? I meant to tell you, I miss your hands - they are so soft. Did you ever notice we have exactly the same hands and feet? Of course you did. You don't miss a trick, unlike me - i miss everything, especially you.

of course, yours - Abner

again your call, but now what?

I'm so glad you called. I know it was hard after last time. I'm sorry. It was just the state I was in. I miss you, that's all. I had expected, was looking forward to seeing you soon but the plan - as I said - has changed. The rug pulled out from beneath, which leaves me or us with two or three long hellish months to wait it out - short, dark days of winter, which seem, ironically long, despite the darkness.

I wouldn't mind the darkness at all really if I could just leave work and meet you at yours. I know you'd have to go home eventually, but at least we could go to our place you have there. I know you keep it up for us (which for every few months is good of you; do you go there without me? I would go there without you, just to be closer to you, I think, but maybe it would make the missing all the more poignant. I'm not sure.)

Last time, last time, it rained - poured. I remember we ran after meeting at the usual cafe and you led me by the hand all the way down 5th to the village and there we were, high in our loft with the window open, both of us soaked, your hair so wavy from the damp and mine waving as well.

It's funny how after all this time how shy we still are. Or me anyway. You too actually. We stand so close, but that last little bit, we get there. You're braver than I am. Mostly. I remember making love and the sound of the city coming in through the window and the sound of the rain as it hit the half-open window of the loft as rush-hour began (you had left early, a bit anyway). We always do something first - some ritual - the same - fruit usually. An offering. Is this temptation then? You always, I always did represent that, though I never felt ashamed. I still don't. Maybe we should. I don't care anymore.

I bit the peach where you had bitten first - I remember reading that this is the last step before kissing, at least, with new lovers. Funny how then we repeat this each time, as if we renew it each time. I taste you, you taste me - exchanging our mouths on the fruit, then we kiss. Then we kiss.

That time, you didn't have to raise your palm to my mouth - it's habit though, isn't it. We're still so used to having to hide, even when we are safe and alone. Perhaps it is just as well then that we do not get too comfortable. But I called out your name. I heard it. I won't write it here, but it rolled and rolled and rolled. Your full name - we of same blood, we two with different names from the rest of the family, different blood, different faith. We always were outcast in this way. This and other ways.

Do you remember the hand-game I taught you? Do you remember the word-game or have you forgotten already? If you remember the word game, then write to me. I wonder if we ought be writing in French, "menagez vouz vos Americanisms" she said. Remember how she told me not to shimmy like that - "tu est d'une bonne familie!" How funny. He wrote, I quoted, "Je suis", because you left me, "trempee," just as you did the last time. Trempee.

God, I miss the absolution you offer. We're not even Catholic and yet I find absolution in you and yet I feel no guilt. This makes no sense whatsoever.

soupir, cel.

your call - so then when?

what can i say? not enough time, too much distance... too many interuptions as usual. It's good we found some time this morning. I was afraid you wouldn't call as you promised, but you did. I was already awake, of course. You said "come" and I ran. I ran through the NYC rain and straight to you there and hardly spoke a word. I think you said, what, that sideways, shy smile, "Hi" and then that was it.

It doesn't seem to matter does it, how long we've been... You didn't raise your palm to my mouth this time. I called out your name over and over and over and over and over and over and over and god it felt so good just to be able to say it without reproach or reprimand or fear. And to hear you say my name - your name for me - which nobody else uses. Nobody else understands. We are so unlike the rest. Well, you know. The rest are what? Just different.

I love how you always take off my shoes. I love that you do that. I love how you take such good care of me. You always did. You always took off my shoes, slipping one out first, then the other and carrying them up the stairs. Now you carry them by the straps and put them on a chair or at the foot of the mattress.

God, I have to tell you, even after, I didn't want you to go. You called as soon as you got to work. I was in a taxi when my mobile rang (well, you know that, because I told you - I was on Madison and something far up). What, only a couple of hours and already we missed each other. Okay, so later then? Don't call me here at work - they always know when it's not him and although they do not know it's you (how could they? unless they see us together, in which case it's hard not to know, but nobody could prove.... Your wife is just awful by the way. I'm getting really bored and tired of being slammed around by her. This last time she wouldn't stop beating on the both of us being being of same faith, or me part anyway and she not. You think she married you so then... but no. She just couldn't help herself, hatred of me so great obviously. Thank you for touching my hand when you did. It helped).

Where and when do you want to meet? The usual place? Where the H. is on 6th. Post here, I'll check soon.

Me to you - you know the rest... of course you do... I still taste that honeyed taste. Do you?

ta cousine

after then

I hated leaving … I walked to the subway and thought of you there all the way back home. It’s hard leaving, always. Always was; still is. Everyone at home was fine – the usual, though L. seemed a bit ‘off’ since she knew that we would be seeing each other that day – we both agree that it’s easier to tell a half-truth, since I find it impossible to say that I haven’t seen you at all. I told her you had stopped by the office to say hello and we had stepped out for an hour or so. The family always knew but that was then. What is our giveaway sign I wonder now? L. and even yours (he) knows something. It’s just there between us. We are, as grandmother always said, ‘unnaturally close.’ Maybe she noticed our hands brush the other night when you walked in. Maybe I should not have sat next to you at dinner (but you were again barefoot as was I and so then this irresistible. It reminded me so much of then… the feeling of your cool foot next to mine. Did you feel it too? I think you did. I do.)

I noticed they noticed and they noticed that we noticed. That’s the problem. I did note that she was rather on the attack that night too. Really going after you then and I’m sorry about that. She is so jealous, so threatened, and I can’t blame her in some ways but what she did and said – I am sorry. The thing about the …. I touched you anyway to make the point. She doesn’t know that you are part Jew as well. Sometimes I think she doesn’t even like the fact that I am. She doesn’t get it the way we get each other. And if I can be frank, even E. seems to have issues with your own Jewishness. Isn’t this just like the family then? Here we are, the only two real Jews again amidst so many Catholics who for whatever reason, feel some need to not accept us or to make us feel less. All it does is serve to drive us closer together. It’s not that either of us is particularly religious, though I remember you… yes… all that confession … that was funny, sweet. You are sweet. Yes, we offer each other the only real absolution, cousin. This you must know. There is no other. We share a litany, a language, a dialect, a codified and agreed upon language of symbols and code and so we are. And because you are, then so am I.

Your kisses, by the way, the other night, tasted of honey and chamomile tea. Mostly of chamomile flowers. But we did eat almost a third of that jar of honey. Some things never change; passing the spoon back and forth between us. I have the spoon…. I’ll keep it safe. Seeing you makes the rest of life bearable… and seeing you and making love to you – and tasting your saffron spiced lips makes the rest of life unbearable because nothing and noone even comes close. Do you follow? I think you do.

of course I do… love, that is, only you.

ton cousin.

our room... the other night...

I’m not sorry about yesterday. I know you are… a bit. But when you met me, it was you who scooped me up and kissed me full on in the café and I said then ‘careful’ and you whispered, “who would know? shhhh, who would know?” and I realized that you were right. We could be any lovers. Who would know in that place that we were cousins, and even if they did… All that I really worried about was someone, somehow recognizing the one or both of us and word spreading. It’s hard enough. We don’t speak of our other. The omnipresent other who has at least tried to supplant the me-you in our affections. At least, this is the deal we must cut in life, since our love is not appropriate.

Still, so many years later and here we are. You promised me this, and we have this… and it is tacit, sweet, and understood. They would, as the family did, make of us sordid, when this is only sweet. I see no betrayal here. There is the love I feel for him, then there is the love I feel for you, which I have felt my whole life and that is familiar, familial and kindred. How can I explain that to anyone? And why should i? I’ve never felt the need – you taught me that. Years I used to confess, no matter that I was not even catholic, you neither. You came or went along anyway just to make me feel better, when in reality, neither of us was penitent. I remember kneeling until my knees were raw and confessing about you, about we, and praying that I would not want… and always you told me, “cousin, this could never be sin.”

I remember after confession, you found me outside the church and we fell to the stone wall in the back by the raspberry bush and you kissed me and I could taste the port wine blood of Christ on your tongue and god, I still wanted you, no matter how much I should or should not.

This place you find for us in the city – small but good. I’m glad of it. I hate it when you have to leave though. We ran through the rain the other night, you with your hood up, hand clasped tight over mine and we got there and climbed the four floors to the only space now that is ours. It is sacred, it is secret. It is ours. Just that beautiful small room, with the giant loft windows, the arched doorways, the wooden floors, the big mattress on the floor where we make love, and the large antique mirrors that are lined up against the wall but not hung. I can see glimpses of us as we make love. You… your legs wrapped about mine. Only here can I call your name… Funny, you still instinctively raise your palm to catch my cries as if the family is still there. I suppose it is good to stay this way, to not get too comfortable with this. But god how I want to just shout your name as it flows like honey off of my tongue. This is all I want.

After, we shared two cigarettes and I watched as you blew grey smoke that curled out the window, your roman profile outlined in the ambient city light. I knew you’d have to go within an hour. I knew you’d be but twenty minutes away – but that it may as well be an ocean because I cannot call, I cannot just see you, and even if I do, I cannot touch you – we must be ‘proper.’ We must be as we must be in order to simply be we. They would see us apart … always we have this. I like that you took my perfume and dotted your handkerchief with it. But where did you keep it? Surely she’d smell it, no? Where did you put it? I was glad of it…I could smell you. And that perfume, I only wear it when I am to see you, so it is a memory. When I miss you, I wear this and it is some small comfort. I stayed a while after you left – ate honey straight from the jar that you brought (as usual) and let it melt on my tongue. You called “tarte au miel” – I’ve always been you’re little tart au miel… do I still taste like honey? You still taste of white wine and grass and summer.

I miss most of all in this moment, your hands, the gently squeeze, your voice, this and your gentle but certain reassurance. Why I still fear after all this time that you will go… stupid. I fear it. I wonder if anyone knows. The secret of a lifetime. Here, only here we can speak without some fear – no email, no phone wire – it’s some home anyway and I’m glad of it. Thanks for this…. Are you here today? I’m looking for you. Tomorrow? Morning? If I come will you step outside for a moment… Will you offer the fruit of temptation with that coy smile in your eyes, my eyes. Will you take me to your office – close the door, as before, and kiss me as before… God, I’m giving you up for Lent. That’s a while yet. I need you. We offer each other absolution. Do you miss me?