Gazing “The crevice of my dreamland lays at the precipice of your reality,” he wrote. He had never thought he would ask her to leave, but it had been enough. Enough of capricious behavior, he thought as he saw her squatting over plants and relieving herself. She had to give herself back, she claimed, as she pissed all around their garden. At one point he had thought of planting poison ivy just for her reaction, but he knew he would be the one to end up licking her wounds, literally, between her thighs. He had done it when she thought she had a hemorrhage and when she was itchy and when she felt like it and whenever else. It seemed his tongue was between her legs more than his cock. That was another reason for her to go away. “Just leave, please.” He asked her again, as she pulled her panties up. A couple of drops remained on her left thigh, trickling down to her knee; her white underwear was moist and the white fabric was see-through. She stared at him and started laughing. Her laughter was the sort that shatters windows and self-esteem. He began laughing too. When she saw he had joined in her laughter she ran around the garden, disposing of her clothing, letting her blouse, her socks, her brassiere hang on the trees as if they belonged there, adornments of another type of Christmas. He ran after her, laughing. Children at play they seemed. He caught her and demanded a kiss with all her passion, with eyes open, with her tongue. She was nude and he wasn’t. The neighbors could probably see them; they had probably seen them other times. In a while it will all turn to normalcy, they will enter their crevice-like house and they will shout and scream and fight all over again. The neighbors will wait at the edge of their windows until they can see them again, storming into their garden, making love or running naked by the trees. Her underwear stays put, he moves it aside as he enters her, carrying her, leaning his eyelashes against her breasts. She moans this Friday morning lovemaking, tomorrow another story will follow their suspended clothing. The trees grow around the cloth that bounded their skin. KELLY ARONOWITZ
No. 2 Musée Magazine 153