Honey

My bird, 

The very thought of the last weekend makes me shiver from bliss. Let me live that moment again. 

You came to meet me directly on the platform. I didn’t have to wait long. You knew perfectly well that my enthusiasm would have been slightly tainted by the smell of the rain on the woolen coat of the rushing crowd, combined with the smell of the pub next to the station, heady and dizzying. You wanted to catch the purity of my happiness. I ran into your arms as soon as I saw you, leaving my Barbie-pink suitcase behind. Your warmth quickly got to me and I closed my eyes as I buried my face into your neck.

The memory, so far already, of the smell of your perfume merging with your very essence, amplifies my shivers. 

Habit Rouge, by Guerlain – an oblong bottle that fills my erotic dreams. 

I breathed in and looked up – you looked deeply into my eyes. Your cashmere-gloved hand reached for the cold, sticky skin of my hand, and you put your honey flavoured lips onto my flesh. We remained there for a moment, exploring each other’s well missed buccal territories. We didn’t care – about the suitcase that could have been stolen, about the inappropriate comments that could have been uttered. 

Was that love? Or carelessness? As a matter of fact, one goes with the other. 

I cannot remember now what broke that first moment. I licked my honeyed lips. I smiled at you before kissing you one more time, more lightly, more fleetingly. You told me you loved me and that you were “over the moon” to see me again. You went to fetch Barbie back without letting go of my hand and you led me out of this Dantean place. The movement of my eyes was quickly shifting: I admired your face, slightly wet from the drizzle of Brest*, but also your feet, elegantly gloved by your cherished Dr Martens’ shoes. Almost automatically, we headed for our shelter, which had just been opened, overlooking the castle and the Recouvrance neighbourhood. You kissed me one more time before going to get our order.

 

Vanilla and cinnamon rooibos for you, Thé des Tempêtes for me. 

You asked me to tell you all about my life in Paris, how my research went, how it was like living with my flatmates. I could easily read in your eyes the affection that you felt for them. You told me you had a surprise for me. I was not especially surprised, as you could infer from the smile on my face, for I am used now to your displays of affection. You took a patent cardboard box out of your tote bag and gave it to me. I opened it clumsily.

In this precious box was a honey-pie. 

We walked back to your place despite the pouring rain. One of your hands held one of mine, the other your crimson umbrella. We walked up Jean Jaurès Street, walked across the Place de Strasbourg just for pure fun before slowly going down again, heading for your kingdom. As we got closer to your apartment your hand, stuck deep in my back until then, started going sensuously down my bum to finally find shelter in the love of the back pocket of my Levi’s jeans.

When we arrived in front of your place, you kissed me, got your honey-coloured key out, pushed the front door open, and kissed me a second time before letting me in. Our slow pace then turned into excitement. 

One flight of stairs. 

One kiss. 

Two flights of stairs. 

One hand under my jumper. 

One last flight. 

Mystery. 

Your nook. 

The walls of your living room were covered with quotations. Dickens, Zadie Smith, George Eliot, Levi-Strauss, Patricia Highsmith. You relieved me of my several layers of clothing in this cage made of words. You showed me into your room. The shutters were open. I relieved you of your rain-soaked coat in this cage made of photographs— photographs of us, of our student life, of our nights spent in the Kennedy Parc, of our moments of happiness. You, naked. Me, naked. You led me to your desk. You went to the other end of the room. You turned on your record player and played The XX— Heart Skipped a Beat. Then you turned to me, watched me wrap my arms around my torso. You came closer and freed me from that aura of insecurity. You pushed me delicately onto the desk, and I was happy to be lying on your poem drafts for cushions. 

You kissed me again, one more time. This time more sensuously. You laid your body upon mine. Your perfume was the most perfect foreplay you could have given me. I let you do it, and closed my eyes. 

Then I opened them again and gazed at the honey-coloured ceiling. 

After that, we spent some indefinite time on the desk. You tickled me, I brushed your chest with my hand. Only once you got up to change the record. It was almost 1pm when we went back to the living room. I was cosily wrapped in your favorite sweatshirt. 

You know, the honey-coloured one. 

You came out of the kitchen with two crystal glasses— the ones I gave you on you twenty-third birthday—and a bottle of Sauternes. You opened it in a pop. ”The one sound that can wake me up at night”, as my grandfather used to say. We drank to our reunion and to the present. You picked up the book you were reading at the moment from the little oak table, which was covered with several mauve rings. You were reading Ginsberg. Again. As always. That book had been read and reread, its pages had been dog eared so many times. You opened it at random and read me a poem. 

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the side street under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full-moon. 


To be continued. 


First written in French, translated by the writer’s best friend, Camille Le Gall.

 

*A coastal city in Brittany, France