The Scent of Your Breath

Thirteen

I’m naked at the computer; he’s in the kitchen washing the dishes and whistling. I like noise when I’m writing — I like a racket. He puts on a CD and I, still writing, find myself moving my hips and making my revolving chair move back and forth. The curtains aren’t closed yet and the windows are high, typical of a seventeenth-century palazzo. Everybody can see us, and we’re happy for anyone to watch us making love. Perhaps that’s typical of people in love: showing everyone you love each other. I wander along the corridor, brushing the walls with my fingers. I enter the sitting room and stroke the bonsai tree, standing on tiptoes. He has his back to me, and I wrap my arms around his chest and start rubbing my pelvis against him. I turn him resolutely around, look at him coyly, aware that I’ve made a movement he likes. I turn around, rub my ass against him, and he delicately strokes my back; I sit down on the edge of the cold, wet sink, the contact makes my whole skin shiver, and my body swells upward.

He takes me there and then, grandiosely stretches his body out on top of mine, and whispers words I like into my ear, warming my earlobe with his breath.

Then I hear a coughing fit and open my eyes: I see a woman leaning over the table, coughing convulsively; she looks up and smiles wickedly at me. She’s blond, wearing a flower-patterned dress, and she’s thin and coarse. I look at her for a moment longer, then I look at him, close my eyes, open them again, look back at the woman and see that she’s disappeared. I can still hear her coughing. I draw him toward me and devour him.

His tongue bleeds, dripping red on my neck.