into love...

I’m a zombie after sex. Jase used to complain I was “such a guy” doing a great Gay male lisp and whimpering, “Hold me. You never talk to me after sex. I need to be cuddled,” etc while I would grunt and kick at him and moan, “Shut up, bitch! Let me sleep!” We would eventually giggle ourselves stupid and unconscious, tangled together.

This night with Jinny though… it is me lying awake beside her, watching the slow, deep rise and fall of her chest as she breathes and dreams.

I don’t want to sleep. I want to soak up every second of this~~of her~~through my pores.

There is a Bible verse rattling it’s innocuous and vaporous trail through my head; it’s been too long since I was actually in church or read the Bible, but the verse about the wheat; shaken, pressed down, winnowed out… that’s me. The chaff in my soul has been shaken, pressed down and winnowed out and I’m hollow and what’s left is clean and ripe.

I trace the curve of one breast with a finger which hovers a scant space above her skin and as if she feels it, she opens one eye, stretching and asks sleepily, “What are you doing?”

“Learning you,” I whisper.


END OF THIRTY-NINE