These books, films music, poems - pressed into the cracks, they are clay that binds their days together. He comes home to a garden filled with snapdragons, the voluptuous lips of "Psychotria Elata", the ballerinas "Impatiens Bequaertii" and the dancing "Orchis Italica", glowing ever so slightly in the setting sun.
When did they move in together?
He doesn't remember. Hasn't it always been this way? The world turning as it should? He doesn't remember, why should he. For all is right in the world and he has, of course, no questions.
They eat, dinner, she has waited, there is the main course, tonight, trimmed white asparagus with a pat of butter and pinch of coarse salt, potatoes whipped in heavy cream, a fresh salad and a filet (tenderloin, thick, encrusted with black pepper, rare, for him) and fillet of salmon (for her).
They will follow this, perhaps listen to the radio in the living room, talk of their days, of their plans, of what she is painting and of what he is writing, maybe a movie, or a walk down along the river.
Before bed he will read to her, not his own, never his own, but something other that he's found at the bookstore.
Where to begin?
"About the Author, (we're told) An 18th century nobleman with a seemingly incurable priape and additionally burdened with certain continental predilections not widely accommodated on Maidenhead or Gropecunt lane, finds himself recommended abroad to reform the morals at a certain convent in Paris. Wherein ensues many adventures, the nature of which he shares and discloses with the hopes of instructing the reader..."
The forward continues to assure the reader of the authors good intentions and recommends the tutelary novel or history as an instruction or fine alternative to those unable to afford said adventures on their own.
Beginning the first Chapter, Chapter I - A Young Man in London
"I, being restive, young and possessed of no small inheritance, found myself frequently drawn to those areas of London for which a small price could provide brief company of a sort that would instruct and prepare me for marriage. The enthusiasm of my tutors was to be applauded, and a great many small sums turned soon into a large fortune having been spent in the pursuit and mastery of that knowledge. This I regarded as a great investment in my future conjugal bliss. To a mind as curious as mine every experience merely opened another door on to those many things I did not yet know, and the diversity of experiences available soon made me realize that indeed I wanted not only to further my abilities and (I am assured) talents in this arena, but as well the application of them.
Unfortunately as a result of certain of these "experiments" I found myself with an incurable priape, and my imagination, feverish, was of no avail in devising a solution.
A friend in this advised me that I should perhaps look to Paris, where there would be the opportunity to acquire more continental tastes, and perhaps even a cure. She had a sister in a convent there, and wrote me a letter which I could deliver to her by way of introduction. My manners and presentation being fine this seemed an excellent pretext to continue my studies..."
As the Chapter closes the reader finds himself in a curious sympathy with the author.
And after, he holds her close and nibbles upon her ear, spears her shoulder with his chin, finds that spot that makes her shiver and arch in pleasure.
He whispers, tickles her while she half-heartedly tries to escape, pull her closer, they fall into the centre of the bed, the mattress
Was it ever better than this? Could it be better than this? How lucky is he...
Now perhaps lightly to sleep to wake again later and sport again, and fall asleep.
Outside, the dew falls, serein, the stars twinkle and fade and the world turns.