Reminiscing on a Relationship

I was so pleased to find this on my computer as I began it as a writing exercise of sorts. But it is now also a beautiful reminiscence. A look into the very beginning of my relationship until now. Little vignettes, moments in time. We are together ten years so far, and it was beautiful to see the little shapes of us in these brief moments through this writing.

Evidently, my mouth is always dry and never feels like my own. So perhaps that is my own feel. 
I may simply be someone who is never quite accustomed to being in my own body. If I were to go back and reread this piece again I’m sure there are more things to take away, but the fact that I am a permanently dry-mouthed little creature does stand out to me.


2010 Senses:

Smell: the intermingled scent of sleep and the previous night’s fucking; the natural musk of the man next to me; the smell of the summer afternoon sun heating the room; the mingling aromas of the streets below – fried food, hot pavement, heated trash bins

Sight: nakedness, myself and the man next to me – in our sleep we have kicked off the light sheet – it lies rumpled on the corner of the mattress; he is lying on his front, his strong back browned from the summer sun; I am lying on my back, my normally pale skin also darker from days spent lounging on the rooftop patio, my breasts shine white compared to my shoulders, stomach, legs; I see us in the closet sliding doors, which double as mirrors; from the futon mattress on the floor which we lie on I can see through the only window in the room – it looks out onto the rooftop patio, a wooden deck with five patio chairs and a metal patio table, there is also a barbecue that remains unused, due to the cost of propane; the sun is high in the sky, beaming through the window – the towel that we set up as a curtain is ineffective, it has fallen during the night and lies with the rumpled sheet; as I look out the window I see shadows across the deck and two ravens land on part of the fence that surrounds the patio – I stare out at them and they stare straight back at me, just as intently

Touch: the roughness of the mattress against my skin, there is no bed-sheet on it, and its fibers rub against my body – especially when I feel so stiff and sore from partying the night before; the firmness of the man’s body, his muscles beneath his smooth skin, his hair damp and matted, sweaty from the heat, but still soft; my tongue in my mouth, it runs against my teeth and feels pasty, as though I have no moisture left in myself

Sound: the commotion of city life on the street below; in another room in the apartment someone else is moving around, showering and then quietly playing music from a laptop; the man next to me is breathing heavily – the last gasps of deep slumber before wakefulness arrives; I hear the ravens on the deck as they flap their way onto the patio, and after as they converse with each other; I hear my own contented morning sighs

Taste: my mouth tastes like an ashtray and there also lingers behind a hint of cheap wine


*


2011 Senses:

Smell: Unfinished laundry permeates the air. It smells of sweat, dirt, unwashed hair.

Sight: The man lies next to me, absorbed in his own writings. I am almost naked, in underwear and nothing else. He wears a striped shirt, red and black, and plaid pajamas, with a hole in the crotch.

Touch: The blanket that is still damp with winter’s sweat itches against my skin- although it is bordering on May, the blanket has yet to be washed- passed around from transient to transient. The man’s feet are ice cold against my back, although I don’t know that my temperature much exceeds his, his feet are noticeably colder than I am

Sound: We listen to a CD, “Ruckus Juice and Chittlins, Vol. 1”, and otherwise there is simply the scratch of pen against paper, and fingers against keyboard. These sounds are briefly interrupted by the race of Nic to the bathroom, or, equally as important and insignificant, the bedroom.

Taste: Stale wine and old cigarettes overtake the taste of myself in my mouth. I realize that it has been a significantly long period of time since I have had only my own taste in my mouth.


*



2020 Senses:



Smell: the salty, mild mixture of mucus in my nostrils, combined with the light odour of fall leaves on damp ground floating in with the breeze slipping in through the slit of open window.

Sight: a cramped living room. Cozy but overflowing with unfinished crafts. Knick-knacks, memorabilia, books, movies. A life's-worth of stories strewn about on shelves. The man, still pyjama-d - not quite ready to address the work day ahead of him, leans forward in the chair opposite me, transfixed on a trucker documentary playing through his laptop. The big screen television gives off a blue haze but remains unused. My teapot sits on the beautiful coffee table in front of me- salvaged from in front of our building and one of our pride and joys. The tea grows cold yet again.



Touch: I’m sinking into our boat couch. The cushions enveloping me. A blanket propping up my one arm. My clothes lightly rub my skin as a move to type this and I can feel the textures of the fabrics. They aren’t bothersome, rather just there. As I am just here.



Sound: The trucker documentary has ended. There is only the clack clack clack of nails on keyboards as we both work on our respective projects. Amazingly there are no sirens outside. The faint hum of traffic in the distance is comforting rather than nerve-wracking for the first time in a few hours. 



Taste: the medication I am on leaves tangy, metallic flavours in my mouth. I move my tongue about this brittle landscape and the tea I had earlier jumps out at me. The milk especially sour. Water splashes through the dry cavern and washes down the distasteful medicinal side effects briefly but I know it’s a temporary fix.