Jonny follows me from room to room, his hands clutched behind his back. He is wearing a simple dark-green shirt; its material ran out of starch.
“Go away,” I mumble into the pillow, “Go away, I’m sleeping.”
He doesn’t – he is almost stepping on my heels. He leans against the stucco walls when I linger in some room.
“So would you keep changing your hair? For eternity? Or would you eventually stop? Would you find the ultimate look you liked? And stop?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I groan, “I change it when I change and I leave it when I leave it. Go away.”
I’m doing laundry and he standing there, his whole body in a slight curve. His shoulder blades and the back of his neck are flat against the wall, and some strands of his hair cling to it, but his hips are in the midair, and in that position it would be very nice to run one’s hand from his chest to stomach. Yes, it is a beautiful curve.
“How about your clothes? Would you ever get enough and then keep wearing the same ones, washing and re-washing, until they are faded so that they are rags, but you still wouldn’t throw them away because you love them so much? How about that? Would it matter if the words were not readable? Would you wear it just for yourself?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh and go back upstairs, then outside.
I sit on the porch enjoying the first warm day of the spring, barefoot on the warm stones, my jeans rolled up a little, and my wife’s car’s parked outside. Jonny is there, facing my profile, and the bugger has a cup of tea in his hands. The porcelain in the warm sun reminds me of old paintings.
“Would you stay with her?” he asks, “For ever? For eternity? Or would you look for someone else? Do you love her infinitely? Or are you with her just because your lifetime is not that long? Would you make a different choice, if you lived for ever?”
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