by Morgan Case
(09/06/06)
This one is blackberries, plums, and leather in June. "Warm and sticky," you say, leaning forward, so near that I, and the rest of the nation, can see the studio sheen glistening on your forehead, your shoulders, your cleavage. "You can almost taste the melting tarmac of the French roads." I lean forward to touch the glass.
I prepare the food and you lean over the counter. Fifteen years on, you're still beautiful. I smack my lips and I'm a virgin in a Tavel field with you again, straw and crackers, cream and jam.
Over dinner it's a crisp chenin blanc. This one you say is lively and flashy, like firecrackers skipping over your tongue, sherbet and watermelons. As the lens closes in I watch your far-away lips, glossy and flirtatious. You roll the words around and play with them like grapeskins on your tongue.
I melt there, taste the roof of your mouth, skip down your throat to see what's inside. You touch my arm to bring me back, and shocks jump through it. The wineglass in my hand vibrates.
After dinner it's a Bodegas Castano Coleccion, warm and voluptuous. "Charcoal and chocolate, roasted pork, the aroma of the bullring." Everyone's always loved your wide-open eyes so much that you could get away with your fanciful descriptions. We all loved you. But I was the lucky one.
By the fire now, on the floor, hot inside and out. The fragrance of your flesh, your sultry breath, the butter on your hands. I pull you closer. I never tasted wine before you. Ruby drops celebrating our anniversary trickle over your long, slender neck, your soft sloping shoulders and full, round bottom. I lick them up from
the back of your neck. Blueberries.
your lips. Cassis.
your nipples. Cherry.
your navel. Liquorice.
Never the same words or the same flavour twice. Damn, you're good. A different secret every time. You keep well -- you keep getting better.
