I told him, you are angular. You are triangular. On the balcony in Braşov, Anna counted scalene triangles over breakfast. She counted 76, under the vines, on a wooden table, head on hands. He is beautiful. All long arms and long legs. He kissed me in front of Anna in the garden. He kissed me under the grape vines and in the kitchen and on the porch.
On the grass next to me, he bites into my ice cream, in the shade. At the table, Anna and I drank a can of beer between us.
I leant on my hands, head on my hands. Anna. Holding her, we walk around arm in arm. I love her. I am on the bench with my back to the sun.
All wrapped up, my legs under the bench, under the vines, his hands on my back and his mouth in my hair. A demand for storytelling, denied, hands on my back. I’m writing in the garden.
Goodbye, I sat on the bench with my back to the sun and with my pen between my teeth, Jeanette Winterson between my thighs. Anna is on the floor, next to me.