She'd like to see me, someday, making love. But it's difficult. The eyes shut of their own accord. It's not voluntary.

Yeah, just like that!

A picture with my lips half covering the breasts. Not above the neck. Not her face. Just me and the breast.

She says she loves the colour of my skin. This colour is rare.

There's something else she'd like to tell me but is shy. I'm curious.

Is it something good or bad? I'd like to know.

It's something good, and it's about me.

But telling it might ruin everything.

Nevertheless.

It turns out to be something uneventful. She thinks I am god.

When she was a little girl she played with the god. He was a dark god. His bones were young. His limbs were gentle.

She'd wanted to marry the god. Hadn't she told her mother about him?

I think I could be a god too. Who knows? But I get clever. I never believe myself.

Will she ever have to live without me? She enquires.

How do I know?
But I say ‘not unless I die’. Just like in the films.

She looks sad since I just mentioned death. She doesn't think I'll die too soon. I don't try to convince her. Just in case - death is dicey.

I ask her what she'd told her mother about me, but she doesn't want to tell. She shakes her head.

Oh, come on! - I urge her.

The way you are - she says.

I'd like to know that. So I ask her.

- That you have dark hair.

I want to know exactly what she said.

She sighs.

- That - he has…curly hair…he's got beautiful eyes…hmm…a…a sharp nose…

- I'm nothing like that. Maybe a fraction. But that's it.

Yet she says that when I hold her, it makes her feel like a child again.

She thinks it's the god holding her.

What's it got to do with me?

I look down at my left shoulder slope down to her. She draws the sheets to her neck. Then snuggles close.

She informs me of her love for me.

Me too, I say, sounding morose.

What about Mr Beard?

He looked unkempt. Very hairy. Men have more hair than monkeys. Only these are finer.

I see him laid out upon the bed. She feels his skin. It is coarse. His body is a stranger.

Is it easy for a woman?

He is gone out. She sleeps without him. What is his dries between her thighs. She knots her fists and curls around them.

Now she wants to know why I smile. I say nothing. She still wants to know.

It's involuntary, I say, for want of something better.

I don't think she believes me.

I think she knows exactly what I was thinking. That's why she asked.

She's in the toilet. The flush is worked.

I see him read the newspaper. She wishes him good morning. He looks up and smiles.
The genial land lord. Nice old man. Mama's known him for years. Family friend. Old acquaintance.
Mr.Beard. Tucks her in at night when it’s cold.
Poor Mr.Beard. He's got no one at all.
Thickset, bent over the newspaper.
Every morning pricks his ears and hears her turn the water warm in the bath. Every other night comforts her.

She returns and flops by my side.

Woman you look so satisfied. Let me tuck your hair behind your ears.

"I lo-oove you."

Woman your shoulders are bare. Where's the collarbone? Together they make two swans. Tails together.
The neck should be half a face. The body eight faces. Exactly.

"Come inside me please."

Have you said this before? In how many innocent ways?

"Hmm. That was good."

There are exactly two hundred and fifty six ways of saying that if you keep the tone, pitch, scale and quality of your voice even and poker faced.
Like: hmm. That was good.
Hmm. That. Was. Good.
Hmm that. Was good… And so on.

"Why do I need you so much?"

When you were a girl you wore ribbons in your hair. Shone like toffee papers.
Coloured as kites.

"What are you thinking?"
"Oh nothing really! Just some stuff."

And when you were still a girl you went to live with your uncle and aunt. And with your cousin brother.

She says boy cousin.

"How was it the first time?"
"I used to cycle a lot. So…"
"No, I don't mean that-you know-when you first made love and all."
"It was with him-you know him."
"The…"
"Cousin, you know."

You were a schoolgirl then.
A schoolgirl. A schoolgirl.
A schoolgirl wears black leather shoes to school.
A schoolgirl chews gum between her school girl teeth. A schoolgirl has a pink tongue.
A schoolgirl puts down her algebra and thinks of boys hanging around in bunches.

"We were just talking at night and-
"No, I meant how exactly? Doesn't just happen, does it? There's stuff that…sort of…leads to…you know…"
"Ok. First we'd gone to a movie and-he and me and a couple of friends-"
"Which movie?"
"Blue lagoon."
"Did you lean against his shoulders?"
"Hmm."
"And his hands? On your knees?"
"Hmm."

And you were only a schoolgirl with your boy cousin.

On the way back-you took a bus home-the four of you stood at the back.
You laugh and stick your head out of the window. He watches you.
You're wearing a skirt. Isn't it? And shoes?
And the socks rolled down till the ankles, showing the smooth.
And you laugh in a different way. The bells are more arrogant. Free. They do not know, but they sense.
And there is mischief in the rain outside. Naughtiness in the fingers, the dimpled elbow, the casual brushing of thighs.
And the friends go their way and you both walk home silently.
Uncle and aunt are out.
He comes to your room. You cut a joke. It dies out very fast.
And when it happens your nails are eager for the first time. You learn to unbutton a man's shirt. To grope for the zipper. The map of his bones.
Afterwards you both quietly collect your clothes. And part. You do not talk about it.
You sleep till late the next morning. He wakes up a little too early and goes for a run.
Uncle and Aunt think you look too perky today. The cousin comes in late in the evening and goes straight to bed.

"What time do you have to leave in the morning?"
"Late. Eleven-twelve"

It's a small room. One door, a large window. Two shelves of books along one wall. An extra large, old, saint's picture on one. Calendar art. In a corner a TV. Manually operated. A full sized oval mirror. A time piece on the shelf showing 2:30 P.m.

On the opposite wall a picture of an out-house covered with snow. Trees. Japanese style.
Clothes crumpled in a corner. A man's underwear. White. Worn out. Two T-shirts. One orange, one deep blue. A pair of brand-new jeans and a worn out pair of Bermudas.

A sagging huge mattress dragged from its corner to the center of the room. Right under the fan.