Sonya says
the Dostoevsky book
I’m reading
is a depressing read.

Read something
more joyful,
she says,
something less dark.

She's laying on the bed
in the Parisian hotel;
her blonde hair spread
on the pillow;
her hands holding
a book;
her legs crossed
at the ankles.

I look at her book cover:
Either/ Or.

What's that book?

Philosophy book;
by Kierkegaard.

Is that any more cheerful?

Depends on what
you mean
by cheerful;
it's not
a bundle of laughs.

She closes the book
and place sit
on the small table
by the bed.

Come lay here;
forget the book.

I put my book
on the dressing-table
by the window
and lay on the bed.

She uncrosses her legs
and turns to face me.

You need to lighten up;
life is too short
to spend time brooding
on the dark elements.

I look into
her icy blue eyes;
there's a new world there.

Kiss me;
hold me.

I kiss her
and hold her close;
I sense her breathing
on my cheek;
her ******* nudging
my chest;
her hands running
along my spine.

How are you feeling?

Fine,
I say,
feeling along
her thighs,
moving her skirt
as I go.

What do you feel?

Excitement and warm.

This is life;
this is living;
taking hold of the now
and holding on to it.

I sense my pecker stir;
my eyes widen;
I see her lips
readying
to kiss again.

She kisses;
no more words;
no more lectures
on life or living;
just a time
of taking
and giving.