i would love critique.

I wrote this some time ago, but it seems as if it could fit into a kind of Valentine's Day theme :)
Let me know.

UNTITLED

She is not his wife, only -- sometimes, wryly, “my little wife” when she chides--
and sometimes when kissing they will touch eachother’s hands,
press them together, and he pinches the bone of her ring finger
between his teeth. Flicks at the softness of her wrist with his hot tongue,
matching the vein with equal tenacity; when she gasps he will only laugh again,
he will only murmur a loving thought into the blackness of her hair --

( Thinking those strands are so dark, dark enough to forget in, but she
won’t know. )

They sit in the park at sundown, playing chess with imaginary pieces; she is most content
in the sound of his breathing as they sit under the heavy shadows of trees. Like so many things about him, there is a music and a sound to it, a taste, a sensation on the tongue; when he gazes at her over his glasses she feels herself grow wet, and her hands shake so badly she must drop her book.

-

what it is like to be the girlfriend -- that’s what they wanted to know,
once upon a time, all they talked about ,
that man and his meek little bird !
see if she puts out

( i think she did at school )

ah--

Holly waits after work, before work, and sometimes skips work for the sole purpose of waiting. She never thought of herself as a woman capable of what she does: making herself up carefully, the china doll, and sitting alone. Sometimes capable hands rise to writing letters, an elegantly mussed updo. She will clean until there is nothing left to clean. Her feet ache from so much wandering, exploring thier empty home -- and then her mouth begins to ache, her whole body aches, even outside of the nightmares. Things are beautiful everywhere, she thinks, and -- yes, so beautiful.

so
so.

Sometimes she wakes so late in the day that he is already home, and her small feet drag to where he sits. Maybe two arms will curl under his chin, holding him to her chest; maybe lips to the temple, stained berry red, maybe the slip of silk over a dark nipple. It doesn’t matter.

They lie in bed after dinner. It is light outside, grey, and in silence there is the sound of cars: humming, pulsing. He will talk all he wants, and she sometimes reaches to smooth the coarseness of his hair or the slight down of his chin. Can’t resist a glance into the tired mirror on the wall, framed in old porcelain -- her hairbrush, his books, a strand of longish black hair -- blue ribbon -- ginger candy -- a hot flash of breath against the small of her back. Pretending to fall asleep to the hmm-hmm-haw of his voice, a tune in variants she will dream to every night. Sometimes he dictates the rise and fall of her chest, in sleep: whether it is peaceful, whether it is half-sobbing the way love makes her feel -- oh, the way --

he makes her feel.

He does.

For the first time ever, Holly doesn’t feel a stranger in her own home -- though true, it was never her home to begin with. The question is whether it has always been a war of love and logic, but the man doesn’t care about answering it most days. Most days he only wants a girl to be with, a girl like her, someone intelligent and capable and beautiful. Most days he only wants her, she imagines. Only is a favorite word.

sometimes.

They lie in bed and --
art, history, botany, perfume,
science, old coinage,
suitable makeup, wine-tasting,
favorite flavors of jam, poetry,
mummy’s desserts, vacation,
a childhood dream, beaches,
ice cream, China, the perfect bread,
space, geology, breeds of dogs,
butterflies, peppermint v. spearmint,
winner against cinnamon, exotic
fruits, gold mining, the physics of
musical instruments, human evolution,
coffee, african tribes, modern art,

anatomy.
They lie in pieces. His limbs are long and curving, detaining her in a halo of freckles, sometimes warm, sometimes cold. They are nearly always knobbly, nearly always difficult to chew, difficult to gather the flesh between her teeth. Holly wants to devour him, wants to crumble him between her fingers. And her own limbs feel it -- in all their smallness, the ankle he can double in the space created by thumb and forefinger, there is so much.

So much. Talking leads to closer and closer and
fingers entwining, then a hand on her hip to pinch at the bone,
to tiptoe over the bird cage of her ribs, to shush her -- “Oh, you --”

And he begins to speak of work again. Her face wilts and wilts until finally he will sigh and kiss it like the luckiest coin in the world, fingers disappearing somewhere in the tendrils of her hair. He rolls his tongue over hers and blows a wish between her teeth, into the tenderness at her jaw. Two wishes against her eyelids, pushed aside by the fat tears beginning to gather, and then one at the base of her neck where there is the pulse, and she is afraid she will die if his breath stays to warm it. If he stays.

-

For dinner, sometimes she will cook. Sometimes there is carry out. Regardless she enjoys making an excursion to the grocery, even if it is only to wander doe-eyed through the aisles: this, that, this? That. Things she will never need, and more! Funny --

There is still something in Holly that expects Mandarin, as if this is Shenzhen or her grandfather’s farm; she nearly drops a can of soup furrowing her brow at the label, searching for the scrawl. And he, he laughs when he is there, pats her on the back. They walk holding hands like a couple.

Because that’s what we are, she thinks. For real,
now. It’s true.

When she cooks it is salty half-stew, large white bowls of rice and roasted duck, peeled lychee and tamarind and plum wine for dessert. Dried squid, salted mango, red pork and sweet corn, balls of sesame and red bean paste -- pickles, chickpeas, shrimp -- small squares of bean curd -- pig’s feet !

The house smells of him, his old things, and
faintly of another home he once belonged to,
when things were

innocent;

and then there is her, the truth of her presence here.

He calls it,
with some reverence,
the girlfriend: peony, vanilla, musk.

“My -- my girlfriend.”

Black-eyed, with a shy slant to her mouth --

Black-eyed,
shy.

“My Holly.”

-

But so, so in control! She is not really anything but confident, and nothing but analytical. Unless she catches herself she will attempt to find the logic in everything, effectively destroying all semblance of art and beauty in the entire world. Yet -- yet! She will cry always, cry forever, seemingly; especially when it is impossible to tell what is bothering her, impossible to have any idea at all. She will cry at happiness, too, and in fear. When angry the tears roll into her mouth like dying stars.

-

What it is like.

Waking with her mouth pressed against the firmness of his back, dream-murmurs crushed into wine they drink later, when he asks what happened to make her talk in her sleep. He rolls over to see her, brow furrowed, and whispers. She touches her hand to the side of his face.

Neither can remember when or why they began seeing eachother like this. There was that time, with the books -- and then the other -- and soon, more than could be counted. It was as if this were supposed to happen, somehow; as if it were already decided. Still there is nothing wrong in pretending it has always been this way, and that there was a choice to be made.

They ignore the light streaming in, though Holly’s eye sparks in the sun; a half of her face is illuminated by the glow, half the cat’s grin. Her neck is severed, and then the palms of his beautiful hands as they reach to draw the curtains shut.

He has a face she dreamt of once, on the storybook body of Jack,

be nimble.

Nimbly presses in.