It was as if she had handed me a knife. Within a month I was her lover. In that room over the souk, north of the street of parrots. I sank to my knees in the mosaic-tiled hall, my face in the curtain of her gown, the salt taste of these fingers in her mouth. We were a strange statue, the two of us, before we began to unlock our hunger. Her fingers scratching against the sand in my thinning hair. Cairo and all her deserts around us. Was it desire for her youth, for her thin adept boyishness? Her gardens were the gardens I spoke of when I spoke to you of gardens.
Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient (via germenis)
12/26/11 at 11:00pm
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