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We became accustomed to each other’s skin. The creases and folds, you tell me, are like origami to you. When I raise my arm in the air, you say, colours of unimaginable hues emit from my fingertips, and only you can see them. I think you’re full of shit. But I sleep with you anyways because the economy is collapsing.
We’ve filled your cellar with barrels of crude oil so we’ll be prepared. Then you lean me over one of the rusty containers and lift up my skirt. I suspect that when push comes to shove, you’ll leave me to fend for myself, so you grab me by the waist and fuck me.
I remember when we put butter all over our bodies and jimmied ourselves through the drain in the kitchen sink and ended up in a rooftop swimming pool in Athens. You were staring at the Acropolis as you tried to tell me the plot to the Odyssey in ten words or less as I dived underwater. I opened my eyes and let the chlorine burn them and discovered that you didn’t exist when put in water. I never told you this. I wonder if there’s a lot I don’t tell you.
When my folds and creases have been divaricated, you usually put a blanket over me, and I pretend that I’m asleep because I don’t want you to know what’s truly inside of me, and I know you’ll give up easily. And when I die, you’ll fold me up again and put oil in my mouth, to assure my entrance into the afterlife, where I’ll wait for you to come and finally tell me the plot to the Odyssey in ten words or less.