Another Life, Another Lover

In another life, my wife thinks she'd be a Japanese chef. She'd be Buddhist. And she'd be married to another woman. She makes this observation as we listen to a radio clip about a similar couple lurking through the woods in search of off-the-beaten delicacies for their restaurant.

The gods have not been so cruel to me. I am by her side in a next life for a fleeting moment. I am their guide, offering the kind of wisdom only a simple man can. They laugh at me a lot, which I mostly find comforting.

She finds what she is looking for. In the Angeles forest, there are bugs that suck the sap of eucalyptus leaves and poop sugar. The sugar is captured piece by piece in a glass jar. The poop will be served as crunchy toppings sprinkled onto ice cream, shocking the taste buds of their dinner guests.

Later that night, my wife's taste buds are also exploding. She tongue-twirls her lover into a state of bliss. I can hear it in the sounds, low and high, slow and bursting, traveling between our tents. Two sheets of nylon filter the sound into a lullaby that sends me to sleep with a deep sense of longing.

In the dawning light, I figure I'll get an early start. They have beat me to it. Their mats are spread out in a clearing. I can only gather they are doing some kind of naked yoga. Their skin looks like porcelain in the sunrise.

Do I worship her mind, spirit, or body? They became so entangled. Yet I feel no embarrassment in staring at her beautiful new figure, down to the last goosebump. I revel in my lust for her. But I feel a sense of shame when her lover offers me the same sensation. The spirit understands what the body forgets.

I turn away to do something useful. Nothing beats a roaring fire in the morning and a hearty breakfast.