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While walking, December 23rd, 2009

We walked downtown to our favorite sandwich and coffee joint. Delia finished her lunch and groaned about how over-full she was.

“Foundered?” I asked her.

“What?”

“Are you foundered?”

“Founded? Floundered? WHAT?”

“No, FOUNDERED! Are you FOUNDERED!”

She looked even more confused when she answered, “no . . . I’m totally LOSTered”.

*****

We’ve been together more than seven years. Over this most recent one, her body has become new to her and to us. There are so many things you can’t see or feel by looking at pictures. Changes only I’m privy to.  When I place my hand over hers, it’s so soft. Her arms are so soft.  Her mouth is so yielding. Her face is so soft and looks so different to me. In ways you might not notice if you haven’t been lying in bed with her every night for seven years. Luminous, radiant, serene . . . heart-meltingly beautiful.

She reminds me of divinity. White whipped waves of sweet solid froth that looks substantial until you hold it in your mouth and it’s a mass of a million tiny soft pockets of air you absorb so fast. You’re eating sweet air given just enough of a slight temporary body to inform you you’re privileged to devour the form of an angel. Her tongue is like that. The way you melt into your girlfriend’s body. The way you melt into togetherness and your mouth is full of nothing but sweet. The edges are just a frame for softness. I like to hold her in my mouth, close my eyes, and let her dissolve into my bloodstream.

There are recipes for this. Special chemistries that rely on the temperature and the weight and the wetness of the air plus a perfect balance of ingredients. It’s a very delicate process, and only certain ladies have the gift to create bodies of divinity. My girlfriend is one of them. It’s art, inheritance, science . . . and a gift gods only bestow on a few.

While she was cooking I kissed her on the ankle.

*****

We saw Santa on a motorcycle at a stoplight. I whooped and he waved. We waved.

A few blocks later we passed a playground with a dozen kids telling us, telling each other, telling their parents, telling everyone:

THE REAL SANTA!! I saw the real Santa! The REAL Santa on a motorcycle!! I saw him! It was the real Santa! Did you see Santa? I SAW SANTA!

They celebrated with shock and awe and hysterical thanksgiving this fleeting glimpse of a man in a red suit riding by on a black and chrome motorcycle.  THE REAL SANTA!! Little evangelical Santa believers, riled up with faith revived.

It was fucking beautiful.

*****

On Christmas Eve we had pizza slices for a big snack. I couldn’t stop kissing her mouth, our lips slick with orange-colored oil. Looking at her mouth and wanting to press my smile into hers. I took a picture of her and sent it when a song came on the radio. I asked her and all of the pizza boys how to spell Skynyrd. Nobody knew for sure but it was a good conversation. Hot open ovens in front of us, cold open door at our backs. Two women kissing each other and three young men spelling S-K-I-N-Y-R-D . . . no, S-K-Y-N-I-R-D . . . wait a second . . . S-K-Y-N-A-R-D.

Pizza time with Delia on Christmas Eve

*****

This is our seventh Christmas together. About six months ago I developed a new fear when I recognized that I wouldn’t know how to live without her. That I’ve forgotten how. Sometimes when I put my hand over her soft hand my chin starts to wobble because of how much that idea scares me.

Our Seventh Christmas Eve Together

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