Curled up, leaning over you, my head against your chest, ear pressed to hear your heart. Peaceful, then struck by the thought I love this heart…I want to reach down, grow fangs, feast on it, consume it completely. Then wonder, who thought that? Has Margaret Atwood as writer qua writer possessed me? Is this love? Desire? Indicative of a disorder?
I think of it for a day, desperate to write it down but never with pen and paper in hand until now. Now, seated across from you at this Tibetan restaurant. Me with my hot lime, you with your lime soda. Both of us tired and cranky, a little mad at our belated friend who has yet to join us for dinner. Both anticipating being even more tired.
“You’re going to write now?” you say, sounding uncomfortable, as I uncap my pen.
“You don’t seem to want to have a conversation with me.” I retort.
“Don’t do that.”
“What? You seem tired and hungry. I’m not upset, I just don’t want to sit and stare into space wishing I had something to do. So I’m writing. Let me know when and if you actually want to converse and I’ll happily converse. Until then, I’m writing.”
Writing about you and how much I wanted to devour your heart last night, that is.
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