And in the evenings, I'd read to her.
She'd rest her head against my shoulder and read along, whilst I narrated and she listened to my words. I'd hold the book and she would turn the pages.
She'd kiss me, when she knew I found the material unsettling, or bury her face into my neck when it unsettled her. And she'd laugh. The laughter of someone who is truly happy. I'd laugh too, content in the knowledge she was safe
And warm
And happy
In the crook of my arm, in the place that was hers.
We would read many things together. Often my taste in books, always passages I thought she'd enjoy. Or I thought edifying. Or just maybe, might offer a glimpse into my soul.
A transcendent intimacy.
The rise and fall of my chest would soothe her, the metronomic beat of my heart. I would lower my voice and speak slowly, allowing her drift. Eventually I'd desist and read on silently
Alone, but not really.
She would cling in her sleep, cradled and coddled. If I tensed to move she would grunt and grasp tighter, preventing me. And kiss me in reward, when I relaxed, in her sleep.
I'd lie awake for hours, happily frustrated. Not comfortable enough to sleep, unwilling to disturb.
Waiting for her to roll over.
So I could roll over, too.
-SRA. 'Reminiscences.' Auckland, 24/iv 2006.
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