"It's as good as a kiss," she said,
offering the loving cup to me,
and she smiled superfluously
her eyes reflecting my pleasure.
22 September 1983
This was something F. did say to me. It wasn’t a loving cup. It was a ceramic mug and why we were sharing it I’ve no idea. Or it might’ve been a can of juice by which I mean ginger by which I mean soda pop. I don’t remember. I do remember it was something she said and not just to me but when two people are in a relationship that no one else knows about they do like to talk in code whenever possible, to touch in whatever ways possible even if only metaphorically; at I said in ‘The Ophthalmologist’s Wife’ (#552) the need for taction contact is a desperate one. And this was one of those occasions. It might’ve been in her kitchen. I want it to be in her kitchen. Her kitchen feels right. I don’t remember.
What I do find myself dwelling on is the word ‘superfluously’. An odd choice. I know what I’m getting at—the smile was unnecessary, the words were enough (and the look in her eyes)—but it’s hard to resist a knowing smile.