“What are we doing?” he sighs, holding still the hand that was just wiping his forehead as he lies in bed.
“Seriously. I mean you and me, us…”
Her heart skips a beat, but she does not dare reply.
“Life is too short. You are an angel, you know that? Really.” He sighs again, and falls asleep. “What are we doing?”
This is not me, of course. But. It’s a good question.
Just as I talk about not falling in love. I fall, vicariously:
“Iphigenia Esker?” He says this as though it’s an extraordinary but necessary hurdle to go through.
“My middle name is Julia.” She can’t look at him.
“Iphigenia Julia Esker?”
“What?”
“Can I kiss you for a minute?”
She considers. He’s still sitting across the table. “It kind of seems like a business proposition. A transaction.”
“I didn’t bring any contracts.”
“No.”
“Maybe we could negotiate this on a handshake.”
“Okay.” She sticks her hand out across the table. Wally shakes her hand. He registers no surprise at her excellent grip. Then, for a long time, they don’t kiss, and they don’t get up and they don’t speak and they don’t let go of each other’s hand.After a while Esker whispers, “Did you say for a minute or in a minute?” and Wally’s eyes, so plain and smart, register wit, but neither of them stops what they are doing with their hands, which is not a handshake anymore, but something unhurried and unscripted, and unprecedented in her history.”
Oh swoon!
I want a man who asks to kiss me, and then holds my hand. Certainly unprecedented.
In case you’re new to this blog and need a hint of my brand of humour, this is it:
“…the one where they kept the um, erotic* books.
* (footnote) Just erotic. Nothing kinky. It’s the only difference between using a feather and using a chicken.”
- courtesy of Terry Pratchett, Eric
It’s awful that I’m putting up two quotes in a row. But I can’t get this one out of my mind. From John Mayer:
Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you’re really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I’ve got a few missing. It’s ok though, because I’ve got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation.. so when I meet someone who’s an 8-color type.. I’m like, “hey girl, magenta!” and she’s like, “oh, you mean purple!” and she goes off on her purple thing, and I’m like, “no - I want magenta!”
This made me smile. I want to write like this.
“I got a crush on everybody. My math teacher. The bus driver. The bus boy. God, I used to get up in the dark and wait at the window to see the paper boy.”
“Always men?”
Ella nodded. “They hadn’t invented women yet, then,” she said.
– Half Past Four, Ursula Le Guin