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Tuesday, Feb 9, 2010
Please tell me that you were compelled to take a stranger to bed, then tell me that you will never speak of it again.
Oct 19, 2001 | Date: 9/15/01 6:30:45 AM Eastern Daylight Time
From: sss@artdoc.com (New York)
To: rwd@sn.com (India)
My friend, my lover, Friday morning and the skyline is still amputated. As I write this, I am looking out my window, facing west, the first blush of dawn creeping into my room. Smoke billows out over the East River. I keep my windows closed even though it promises to be a glorious day. The smell is still very bad. I tried calling you earlier, but I screwed up the time difference, you must've been sleeping soundly. Dreaming of me? My skin, perhaps, caught in your ruby lips, your white teeth grinning at my surprise? Despite everything that has happened, I dreamt of you last night; your indigo eyes, your jet hair streaming down your back like a plume, like a feather. "Oh, my love, thou art fair. There is no spot in thee."
I am determined today to get on the train and go into the city. No, don't protest. I have to get on with my life although I am haunted to the core of my being by the pictures of the missing on every tree limb, every mailbox, every store window. Snapshots of family picnics, of sunny vacations, glorious smiles. We now are a city with the souls of thousands floating over our heads. At times I feel it is not the smoke that stings my eyes, but the ghosts of people ruthlessly ripped from their lives.
And I really can't be persuaded to fly to Paris. Yes, I will miss kissing you in the Fifth Arrondisement beneath grinning gargoyles, sipping hot coffee at the café. And then the train trip south to Cote D'Azure. What happy times we have had there! Thick omelets oozing butter, warm croissants and white cubes of sugar for our coffee set in a white bowl, while we sat on a white terrace overlooking the blue Mediterranean. Remember the restaurant on the beach in Juan les Pins? Yes? First, five hours of making love followed by lunch under the yellow and black striped awning. I do. I remember. I remember how ruthlessly you bit off the heads of the shrimp, then popped their pink bodies in your mouth, how the grease from the butter made your face shine in the hot light. How your dark skin got even darker as we sat on the beach, your head in my lap, your tongue tickling the inside of my thigh. We like to eat and we like to make love.
But I really can't be persuaded to get on a plane. You must understand that the whole world has changed for me. The whine of an ambulance, the roar of an F-15, the smell of smoke signal danger, disaster. It is personal, private. It is global. I cannot be persuaded to get on a plane, not even for you, my darling. I feel I must continue to pay respect to my city, my home. So, right now, we will have to content ourselves with our letters, our words, and the odd phone call until I can get to you or you can get to me. It will be alright. Don't you think? That's what I tell myself, it will be alright.
Here, let's walk through our first morning in the South of France. Read this and then close your eyes:
We arrive in Nice by train at 8 in the morning. We settle into a gleaming silver Mercedes, and haggle over the price to Juan les Pins, the driver finally agrees to 350 francs. While we speed south, you are nestled against me and your hair smells like sunlight. The Mediterranean to our right is a blue bowl of water. I turn and rest my head on your shoulder, suddenly the car swerves and you admonish the driver, in fractured French, to slow down. He pretends he doesn't understand you. Then you relax, hand your fate over to the gods, kiss my earlobe, blow softly in my ear because you know how much I like that. And I do like that. My spine tingles ... wait, momentarily distracted by a fighter jet flying overhead, my God ... that was low. Shit. OK, where was I? Oh, yes, my spine is tingling because you have just kissed me. But my spine is tingling, though not from pleasure, from fear. I've lost it. I will have to try again tomorrow. Sorry. I'm just so sorry about all this. I'm feeling very sad now, and don't think I can continue. Let me try again tomorrow, my love. Let me try again.
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