love story

THE reason I am smiling as I sit at work on a Monday morning, just hours before my mother undergoes a biopsy on a lump in her right breast that is like a peach pit, an insidious, dark evil peach pit: am remembering yesterday evening, curled up in green and spinning lightly from the rum still in my system, warmly wrapped in a borrowed sweatshirt three sizes too big and arms just the right size, we were kissing and thanking each other for being and I closed my eyes and he licked my eyebrow. ‘What the hell did you just do?’ He did it again. Like the fluffy calico cat had earlier that day to my parents’ dog as we all waited for the Easter ham, he held me down and cleaned my eyebrow with his tongue. He delights me sometimes, so much that I can only make croaking, crooning noises from my throat. Ah, you.