The end of the ocean

Love is in the morning” he said, “after a long night spent sleeping together.” We sat at his table. Eggs steamed the air before us, a bottle of milk waited to fill empty glasses. “Why the morning?” I asked. “Because in the morning,” he said, “you’re just awake.” He yawned and then smiled, as if at a joke I wasn’t getting. “Just awake?” I asked. “What does that mean? And anyway, shouldn’t love be at night, in bed?” He just smiled, then poured milk in his glass without looking at it and handed the bottle to me. “Why not at night?” I re­peated. Last night we’d met, talked, come here, had sex, fallen asleep: if love existed, wasn’t that the place to look for it? And then I remembered dreams, interrupted, awakened by his hands, as he’d taken me a second time and I pretended to sleep. Now, pouring milk in my glass, I watched him, spilled a little, and handed the bottle back to him. He stood up then, so close to me that the white plain of his stomach filled my vision and the odor of his crotch filled my nose. I leaned my head toward it, my mouth already open: I thought that’s what he wanted. But he pushed me back, walked behind me, behind my chair. He held me then kissed me then ran the cold milk bottle between my legs, and then, “John,” he said, “this is not just love, nor is it all of love.” He held up the half-drunk bottle and swirled the milk in it, and then he put it on the table and ran his wet hand down my back. He stopped at the base, scratched me lightly. I shivered as cold water ran off my thighs, and then I turned in my chair and put my hand, my big clumsy hand, on his chest. Each finger took a rib like shipwrecked swimmers clutching at life rafts, but my thumb danced over his heart, alone, uncertain. And then I gave in and moved close. I rested my ear against his chest, encircled him with my arms, and lay like a swimmer who has at last reached the end of the ocean. “Love is in the morning,” Martin repeated, mouthing the words into my ear, kissing it with dry lips, moving his wet hand up and down my back, making me, making me want . . . nothing. “After a long night spent sleeping together.” Beneath my ear, his heart moved a river of blood on its way and, at the thought of that, part of me shivered, and part of me was warm.