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“What do I really think of you? Let's see," I say and smile, closing my eyes again, suppressing a giggle. "I think you have a very nice big thick . . ." I open my eyes and glance up, then convulse in laughter at the sight of his face, "piece of steak in the freezer that I feel like eating!"
"Oh you do, do you?" He smiles finally. "I thought you were a vegetarian."
"You've given me a taste for meat," I say, grinning. "We'd have to heat it up first." I practically roll around on the couch in hysterics. "Get it nice and hot!" Hold my belly. "Not too well done, though," I add, tears in my eyes, "cause I like it all nice and dripping juice!"
"Oh, believe me, it's already dripping," he says, leaning down closer, his face just an inch away from mine, smile now broad.
I scream at that. "Well you better get it out," I laugh so hard I can barely speak, "cause I got the munchies!"
I lie beneath him, his face against my neck, his nose beneath my ear, snuffling me like I'm some kind of exotic flower, the laughter slowly subsides, leaving me in a state of near bliss. It just feels so good, lying there with him on top of me, his weight comforting, his lips on my neck, his hair on my cheek.
"What do youreallythink of me, Eve?" His voice is so soft that I'm not sure if he actually said it. It sounds as if it's distant, as if we're under water.
"You already know."
"Say it."
"Why? Just read me."
"I want to hear you say the words."
I inhale slowly.
"What do I really think of you?" I say, now serious, my eyes still closed, my lids too heavy to open. "I think I could love you, even though you're not Michel," I say, nodding to myself. "And I hate you both. I wish I'd never met either of you."
He doesn't say anything for a while, and I just enjoy the moment, the way it seems to stretch like warm taffy, sweet and soothing.
"And if I said you were free to go? Right now? If I said you could just get up and leave, and I gave you a plane ticket and money to go wherever you wanted, start a new life?"
"Mmm," I say, imagining, shaking my head slowly. "If I could go anywhere?" I think for a moment, my eyes closed. "Wales," I say finally. "The Northern coast." I see it in my mind's eye. A rocky coast. "There's a medieval ruin there. Dolwyddelan Castle. Some days, when there's a storm, the clouds roll in off the sea and fill it up." I sigh. "I want to go back and feel the clouds in Dolwyddelan Castle."
I lie still, imagining what clouds would feel like.
"They must feel like fog." I remember fog lying thick on the ground when I lived in Wales. I remember a poem from public school I had to memorize and repeat to the class. "The fog," I say, reciting it out loud, "comes on little cat feet. It sits over the harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on."
"Carl Sandburg," Julien says.
"Yes," I say and frown, my mood shifting at the memory. "Mrs. Peacock made me memorize it in Grade Five. I cried when I had to recite it in front of everyone. I hated people looking at me, as if they could see . . . "
"See what?"
"The blood." I shake my head, remembering. "He made me bleed." I swallow. "He took pictures."
"Shh," he says, rubbing my cheek.
I close my eyes and my feelings of bliss vanish as if clouds blown away by the wind at the top of a mountain in Wales.
"Time for more," Julien says, sitting up. "You're coming down fast."
I sit up beside him and rub my eyes. "I don't want any more."
He shakes his head and picks up the joint that lies in the dish on the coffee table and lights it. "Here. Smoke the rest."
"What if I don't want to?"
"Eve."
I relent and take a hit, sucking in the smoke, holding it in for as long as possible. The buzz I get from before is nice. I like the feeling – as if there's nothing wrong in the world. As if everything's fine, happy, sweet. No troubles. When I'm done with the joint, I turn to him and watch him as he finishes up the end, the ember blazing for a brief moment before dying out completely.
