Bob, 1998

The wooded way we live, under a canopy of burning haze, oxygenated by sweet leaves and bitter weeds, in our little tree house, replaces time. He feeds spiders with the flies of our youth and mourns moths caught by our cats. His eyes are like two lovebirds looking for love. Clouds of olive branches and jasmine bouquets, palm fronds falling, Chip-and-Dale-like squirrels spiraling up and down tree trunks or scurrying across the roof. Tumblers, paintbrushes, chopping sounds from the kitchen, herbs, onions; our history is like a reduction or a concentrated sauce, with chiles, which accompanies the main courses he prepares every day. Lodge, spatula, car repair, kitten. A quiet yes on the lips. An unapologetic shyness, an undercurrent of nervousness that comes from caring. I thrive in the shade, he in full sun; together we’re a half moon, yin-yang, dinner and dessert. Every brushstroke; thinking thinking thinking, then suddenly autopilot; he steps out of the shower, sunlight on his lower back, his memories are also mine.

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