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Your tongue moves to probe me and I feel the invading warmth. Sighing, I cradle your head in my hands as you feast upon me. Loving your gluttony as you proclaim your satisfaction of the feast that I serve. Closer and closer you drive me to the precipice. As I dangle on the edge, you circle you tongue upon me and flick it quickly over my most sensitive part. I shudder, I scream as I fall over the edge to my small death. I rouse myself and feel the tears that cover my face. Tears that have come unbidden to wash clean the hurt and ache that I feel when my body remembers what my head can not forget. You are gone. Your simple two-line note that tells me you have found someone and can no longer be with me confronts me as I look around for you. Lying there where I left it when I sought the solace a sleep. I remember that no words were spoken and no promises made that would bind us and that each sought in the other something they could not name. I remember the joy of our brief encounters. He was still the closest thing to a father I’d ever had, and he had always been in my life. Of course I would help I said, and I did. The next few days we worked hard at moving all manner of old junk out of the upper storey of George’s stable house. George and Rose lived in a farm house that was situated just across the road from the old church and which belonged to the same era. Next to the house were two buildings which had been added later, but which had stood for more than a century. One was a stable which George had converted to a workshop, and the other was a garage which had room for three cars. Inside this latter building was an old 1927 Citroen which George claimed he would one day renovate but which had stood still for as long as I could remember. George kept it clean and even polished it on occasion. We worked hard for three days and as regular as clockwork Rose brought out lunch for us. We sat in the driveway and ate as we faced the old church. As he had many times.
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