June 13

Diego,

Nothing will keep the church bells out.  Every hour they toll.  Even the dog across the street howls this morning. He is huge and black with one ear bent down. My cousin says when a dog howls, someone has died. Have I died? Is that why my head feels so bad? Or is it the tequila I drink at night to keep my arms at my sides?  A woman does not survive well alone. She needs to be touched Diego–she needs her other half, just as light needs the darkness. My belly is never more beautiful than when it is fitted against yours–our skin touching beyond breasts to the curve of your neck–your hair like animal fur keeping me warm. On those nights, I sleep and rest well. More frequently you are gone–tequila  cuts through the tightness around my throat and the need to go out into the night. Sometimes I want to walk out into the city–to go up to a man on the sidewalk and ask him to come with me–maybe I will never even tell him my name. I will just open my mouth–my arms– let him drive my hunger away.  If those bells don’t stop, I will go mad. The light is hazy–it is too hot to sleep. The bells remind me of votive candles flickering in the darkness–while someone is praying. I want the bells to go away. I want you home now–lie down with me on cool sheets–hold me until I sleep.

Love,

Frida