No Apologies

Sunday, Sept. 29, 2002 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

Okay. We had sex. Jer and I. Before he left. In June.

(I told you there were things, Dear Diary, that I wasn't telling you.)

And now, perhaps, you are thinking, this was what precipitated the recent crisis between the Fiend and I?

It wasn't. In fact, Jer and I never would have slept together, but for the Fiend's insistence. And we did sleep that night, a light sleep, a tender, drifting shoal of sleep, too shallow for dreams, waking often, waking each other, without apology, to touch and be touched. And by that time, the Fiend was with us, because Jer had brought him back to us, leaving our bed, dragging on his jeans, walking barefoot to the studio, returning hand-in-hand with the Fiend, undressing him, then watching, deliciously aghast, as the Fiend took me, Jer holding me while I moaned and grunted against his shoulder, kissing me, kissing the Fiend, the abandoned kisses of a recent virgin, eddying between timorousness and enthusiasm.

And then he left us in the morning. I took him to the airport, and kissed him among strangers who didn't care, and then he left. And I didn't know if he would come back.

But he did.

~

9:54 am

The Fiend and Jer were not allowed to sleep this morning, wakened at a godawfully early hour by screams of "Miss it! Miss it! Miss it!" and "In the hole! In the hole!"

Ahem.

The Ryder Cup.

Golf.

The Europeans won.

Scum.*

~

12:37 pm

*Said with great respect and affection.

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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