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?
