Like a cat.
Sometimes a kitten will come to you: lie on the carpet, on her side and wait to be stroked. She is perfectly relaxed, trusting you will not hurt her. You pick her up, carefully, with both hands; she lies floppy in your grasp, not a trace of tension, utterly relaxed. It is tempting to believe that she finds being in your presence pleasant; it is tempting to believe this is love.
She glides into the kitchen: it's early morning - she has just got up. She's wearing her dressing gown over her nightdress. She hardly seems awake. I put my hands at her waist; we stand quietly facing each other.
I whisper: “Give me a kiss…”.
She stands a little more erect, turns her face up, puckering her lips.
I say: “Not like that, not like a statue - you're meant to flow against me. I want to feel your dumplings against my chest!”
This is a cultural reference to a cult British TV comedy she rather likes.
She says, “Get a move on!”
I run the tip of my tongue along - between - her lips.
Retaliation.
She laughs and turns to put the kettle on.
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