Liam pointed a few things out to me today. For one, he said, those periods of unconsciousness that I slip into when he goes out are called sleep. Another thing, he said, that, although it is not that healthy, consuming nuts, bread and red wine is considered eating. And I have not lost five pounds. He would have complained. He said I could easily gain five pounds if it was up to him.
And, he said, I could probably love this city if I would go somewhere besides up the Prins Hendrickkade to that little shop that sells wine and back into his bedroom.
It’s too cold to go out. The wind whips the snow horizontally and my view of the city is reduced to what I see through the folds of my coat collar. The trees outside sway as I sit in the warmth, sipping at a glass of wine. I light a cigarette. He takes the cigarette from me and stubs it out. He draws on his hand-rolled cigarette and sets it in the ashtray. Firmly planting his lips over mine, he shares his smoke with me. I pull him in close and kiss him back. He pulls away and unbuttons the top button on the khaki-green shirt I have borrowed from him. My skin shivers as he presses his warm lips to my bare chest. He undoes another button. And another.
He leans back, grabs his joint and takes a deep drag. I ask him why he lets me stay here. He says I’m good company.