Turtle

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Our room is chaos, but outside it is serene.  You sit in the bay window as gentle flakes of snow dance and twirl towards the ground.  We’ve turned up the central heating to Hell Mode, and you now pose like a dishevelled swan – wrinkled t-shirt, last night’s wet knickers, one sock, two days growth on your legs – trying to catch the little white faeries as they crash against the glass.  I just want to ravish you.  Again.  But one cannot underestimate the British fascination for weather.

You left the bathroom door open.  The room fills with the musky scent of your shampoo, combined with your upset hungover stomach from all the wine last night.  I cross-leg myself at your side and sneak a glimpse at your reflection, gazing into the vault you usually keep locked.  A few floors below, I look on the tops of many stories.  Men in suits and training shoes running for phone booths.  Women expertly dashing across frozen cobbles in tall heels.  Children run around in circles, flanked by their guardians, as a taxi cab slides on ice into a post box, and all the mail billows out like a piñata full of butterflies.

I’m unshaven, greasy and hungover.  Despite this, you receive me.  I turn my face away because I don’t want to kiss you with my yellow teeth, but you pinch my cheek hard.  When I exhale in pain your eyes close, and when they re-open, there is a spark that I cannot resist.

 

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