The Gift

"It's as good as a kiss," she said,
offering the loving cup to me,

and she smiled superfluously
her eyes reflecting my pleasure.


(For F.)


22 September 1983
 
 

This was something F. did say to me. It wasn’t a loving cup. It was a ceramic mug and why we were sharing it I’ve no idea. Or it might’ve been a can of juice by which I mean ginger by which I mean soda pop. I don’t remember. I do remember it was something she said and not just to me but when two people are in a relationship that no one else knows about they do like to talk in code whenever possible, to touch in whatever ways possible even if only metaphorically; at I said in ‘The Ophthalmologist’s Wife’ (#552) the need for taction contact is a desperate one. And this was one of those occasions. It might’ve been in her kitchen. I want it to be in her kitchen. Her kitchen feels right. I don’t remember.

What I do find myself dwelling on is the word ‘superfluously’. An odd choice. I know what I’m getting at—the smile was unnecessary, the words were enough (and the look in her eyes)—but it’s hard to resist a knowing smile.