Monday, August 21, 2006

Saturday Night...

and we are drinking wine at a cozy dark bar, surrounded by men speaking Italian. Outside, there is just enough rain to wet the streets and the leaves on the trees and the few patches of grass on the ground, so the air blowing in through the open door smells both industrial and vegetal.

I drink spiceboy's wine first, because I like it better. It tastes like leather and butter and oak trees. I lean my head into his shoulder, soft and soapy and smelling like home. I take my notebook out of my bag and place it on the bar, opening it to a blank page. In it, I write:

What is today's date?

spiceboy writes:

August 19, 2006.

And so we finish our wine and order two more glasses and have a conversation in the notebook, rather than out in the open air. spiceboy wonders if now that we're married, we'll stop dating.

I write:

Do husbands and wives still date?
I hope so.
If we do not date, then what is it we do?
Talk? That is dating.

The little place is filling with people. The air has become close. The wine has gone to our heads.

spiceboy grabs the pen, thinks for a moment. Writes:

Dating is...pooping.

Then he grins at me.

I write:

No,I think marriage is pooping.

Dating is...waiting until you feel comfortable enough to poop.

spiceboy motions to the waiter for two more glasses of wine. Then he picks up the pen and writes: