She lies naked in my arms, her hair in my face, annoying me. Exposed I try to cover myself with her skin, clothed in warm contact. Though the closer I move into to her shape, the more difficult it becomes to find a comfortable position. Either my head is too high up on her shoulder or her hair creeps into every orifice in my face. Now disgruntled, I move away into my own space and press gently on her shoulder. She buckles and stares closed-eyed at the ceiling. So, bored and disenchanted, I pull the covers down to her navel, like unwrapping a present you wanted two years before you got it. Unlike Jeannette Winterson’s romanticism, I did not look upon her like young explorer in an uncharted exotic world. Instead, her body was a minefield that threatened to; piece by piece, violently dismantle the serine ideal I made in passion and intoxication. I feel more like a veteran of ugly conflicts, which in their heat drowned my mind and body with adrenalin and fear. She still smiles when I touch her, even though she is not completely here with me. I know I should be flattered. But I am not.
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