Feed me with Your Kiss

She hadn’t given him the letter yet. They squinted as the twilight sun filled the lake below them.
She had said that it was a kill or be killed situation.
Is it? How?
Either they get it or they take all of your plants. They take your plants, they take your food, and where are you then? A carnivore? If there’s no food what do we do? Do they eat grass? I don’t care if they eat grass. They eat my beans.
I am the vegetarian.
Slugs mattered to her.
She hadn’t mentioned the letter as a cat had slinked and sidled, walked between her legs and twisted herself around his, eyes demanding, purring deeply, its back arched. He had pursed his lips and made a sound like Sooty or was it Sweep. The cat had stopped and looked and then was away as soon as she had come. The lock turned the key.
Still nothing, no mention, as he saw his blood and saw her hers, but felt no pain. Xs marked the spots, the crosses. Suddenly they stopped, as rain began, tributaries creating tributaries, and she pressed her right arm against his left and the blood flowed and the blood joined and she was on her toes amongst the steam and broken china, the clutter that kept him coming back, to that kitchen and to…now, he saw her, his eyes closed, their tongues like explorers to a dark continent.
Then she had given it to him. He had not read it then, but two days later when everything about him was the same.
“You said you would and you didn’t and I needed you and you weren’t and now, I’m not. Time to say goodbye and move on like a roadrunner… roadrunner once…roadrunner twice…the fog just thickens and obscures, consumes and constricts until I have to rely on all the other senses. I’ll be De Flores, you be Isabella.”
He had read it before. He had written it.


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