Office Hours

We have talked of high notes and long chapters over congealed ribbons of pasta in tepid wide trays between us. The red glaze of heat lamps; we have never yet been closer. Your eyes a deep blue. As far away as the horizon or the ocean floor. With such depth.

I will loan you my dog-eared copy of that slim volume?

Yes, yes. You would like that.
 
You will visit me. Knock on the doorframe. Pointed teeth. You will open the book across your lap. I will lean over your shoulder, my breast barely glancing your cheek. Trace a finger under my favourite sentence across your thigh.