Tap the ash out on the heel of your boot. The fog wraps around our outdoor table and I pull on the lapels of my jacket, the cold now alien to my thin, thin blood. A tall young man, blonde and handsome, comes up and asks if we need anything else. I quickly shake my head no, but, you take a moment longer to dismiss him and I can feel the jealously squirt into my mouth, like I bit into a lemon. Still, I choose to ignore it and I steal your cigarette from the ash try, my promise to quit now long forgotten but I'm still not sure where they sell cigarettes in this foreign land, where vice is peddled. You laugh and slap at my hand, but, I lightly grab your wrist as I take a theatrically long drag and then, with that same hand, slip the cigarette between your pointer and middle finger. You suggest we move indoors as a noticable shiver racks my thin frame and I shake my head no, that the delicious, green poison of the summer needs to be forced out of me by this alien cold. Of course, I don't say all of that, I just shake my head. You ask me why I've been so inarticulate since I came here, wondering where that famous volubility is.
"I think I lost it when they stamped my passport"
The cold has become too much, so, I pull a wad of strange colored money out of the pocket of my peacoat and throw it on the table and grab your hand. You look up from your book with a glint of shock but willingly stand up and walk quickly behind me as we go back to your apartment. I'm tired of being stoic and we will make love until my skin feels the warmth it so desperately needs.
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