(I hate when he licks me, my shoulder, my cheek. But it's a love lick, he says, knowing how I hate. Don't fucking lick me, I say and rub at my skin with his shirt.)
Other times he works in his office, throwing hazelnuts at me there in the living room. I find them when I move the couch, the coffee table, traces of him everywhere rolling across the hardwood floor. (Most times we exist, he and I, in things that are found beneath furniture.)
When we sleep he snores. Grey sounds fecund from his chest, and I have learned to kick him with each inhale so that he thinks he woke himself up. Susannah, how old am I? he asked last night, and when I told him he kissed me. Thank you, for a minute I thought I was 38. Sometimes he burns like a coin between my palms filling everything.
***Something about this image says love to me (not lust). I was told that my grandmother was not allowed to eat bananas in public, or maybe ever.***