Innocents and Others

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This is a love story.

My boyfriend used to, used to. Now he is. Enormous. He says he worries about exposure, books, articles, lies, truth. Everything.

“Trust,” I say. “Trust. One day I will be old.”

“You will be the one to leave me,” he says. “You’ll see.”

“That is such a cliché,” I say. He laughs.

“Yes,” he says. “It is. We are.”

* * *

I climb around him. He is very good at one thing. Everything happens slowly. He watches me, and I climb atop him, feeling his eyes. He laughs, and his laugh is deep and I feel it shake his body.

“Smoke,” he says. I light up a cigar. I sit, on the wrecked bed, in a camisole and panties, and I puff a little breath at the red coal.

“It smells awful,” I say.

“It smells delicious,” he says and laughs again. Sometimes I help him get dressed. I button his endless shirt. He wears a black shirt, black pants with an elastic band where a zipper should be, and a black sports jacket if he is going to meet someone. He is always going to meet someone, but I don’t go. He has a table at Ma Maison, by the door, and people have lunch and make deals there. People stop by, there is some talk, he makes them laugh, he tells them stories, and maybe something will come of it.

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