We left Normandy covered in flea bites. I had a perfect line of them tucked under my ass, which I scratched like a dog on the fabric seats of the train back to Paris. I scraped my sandal up and down my leg for the whole metro ride to the hotel where we itched our skin between stiff bedsheets that stunk of chlorine. That night I was kept up by the sound of sirens and the groaning A/C and the crinkling of the plastic mattress protector beneath your restless limbs. We woke early, knotted around a duvet freckled with blood.
1 Comment
No posts
Very well Donne. “This flea is you and I, and this
Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is.”