April 30, 2012

My dearest,

You will not move me.

The sun is too hot. It’s not a day for walking or running or doing much, really. The grass is too comfortable, prickly and green and green things are healthy, aren’t they? So let us just lay here and allow our bodies to worship the sun, to soak in the rays, to get brown and moist from the lotion we rub all over ourselves. Or better yet, have someone else rub us down. A massage would be simply perfect.

And later, when we get hungry, we will rustle ourselves from our midday stupor and we will feed ourselves. There is plenty — the summer sun explodes from the fruits, the segments of mandarin oranges, the sweet slices of red apple and the sour green, the peaches and the apricots, the punchdrunklime of pineapple chunks, freshly fetched from the wild plantations and  chopped up with a machete — O how dangerous! O how exciting! O how our tastebuds cannot wait to savour all of this … and more.

Someone has brought a can of sweetened condensed milk, slowly heated and double-boiled — home-made dulce de leche for us happily homely people. A slopping of this creamy caramel and a dollop of vanilla ice-cream and you have Decadence in a dessert bowl. O Heaven.

Who would miss this, a kiss from Paradise? We are lovers all, we are lovers always, when our bellies are full and our appetites constantly feasted on the best this life has to offer, and that is plenty.

Yours, ever and always.