Tuesday, 14 February 2012

A Good Man

He is a good man, she says; he is a good man and he gets out of our coddled bed nest to make me coffee when the mornings are jangled and our teeth furred from too much fun. He is a good man and he can poach an egg. Perfectly. He buys chives to pretend we are in the restaurant when I cannot afford the restaurant, when I cross the street to avoid the eye of the ATM. He is a good man and he does not crook his eyebrow to suggest my behaviour is inappropriate or sluttish except, of course, when that is what I want. He is a good man, she says, you cannot possibly understand the goodness of this man; he is the sound of freshly forged daggers hissing on the anvil and the smell of fondues bubbling on the moon. He forgives me when I am topsy-turvy and he licks the crook of my elbow with his neon fox tongue. You think you know love, she says—he lashes me to the four posts of a magic carpet and we surf the aurora borealis while I wriggle and squirm and wink at Sweden. You think you know love but you don’t know anything, she says. He is a good man. I am in love.

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