Sport 29: Spring 2002
Jessica Le Bas — incognito, my love
When you dream it is hard to kiss for very long. People watch you from the tops of buildings, and hills that are not there just to die for. Open windows have a way of attracting faces. A friend has a house on the top of a mountain where his windows are painted yellow with small red flowers all round the edges of the glass. So I can see happiness all day, he says. He too can see us kissing, which must make him smile. He should smile more often, don't you think?
Once you came down a wide case of marble stairs. I swear the Parthenon was silhouetted in the distance, but how could that be? There was a red brick turret high behind you, where you lived. The yellow light from one of your small castle windows shone, a beacon in the civic-blue sky. The smell of leather came with you, and the white of cotton drapes drawn in your eyes. You jumped the last few steps and came to rest just below me. We were eye to eye. You looked through to the other side of me, unwrapped a part that I thought secure. We smiled knowing exactly what the other was thinking, but we kept it secret anyway.
I wore black.
It was winter and the macadam dark hid me from the obvious. You whispered like it was business; your chin low and your eyes counting your shoes. Later we drove off for coffee incognito, two black shadows wishing the days were longer.
The place in which we first sat, has it still the atoms of us, our thoughts, spinning in it? Do you think we have stitched a tapestry in empty space yet, a clear head perhaps for where we are going?