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Page 41.
 “You mean like novels?”
“You are so smart,” he said. “I want you for my audience forever.”
“I would love to be your audience forever. Read something else for me.”
“How about this?”
“Number something,” she read over his shoulder.
“Yes, I am compiling a manuscript that I am starting to show to publishers.”
“Any nibbles yet?”
He made a sad face. “Not yet.” He’d already tried all the publishers in Paris, and gotten nowhere. Now he must look out of town, like the one he’d found in Strasbourg near the German border. “I number them in sequence. No special meaning. Just my personal little catalog. One day maybe I’ll have enough that I can sort them into groups.”
“Any love poems?” she asked.
“I have never really been in love.”
“Yet.”
“Yet,” he agreed. “With you it’s like a new world. I don’t know what to make of it. My feelings are all over the place.”
“Mine too.”
“Very deep.”
“I could cry sometimes, but I have already cried a lot before I met you.”
“I don’t want to make you cry.”
She placed both hands on his lap, devotedly. “Just let’s be two souls together, heart to heart. Mind to mind. Feelings flowing together like neon light in rain puddles.”
“You are a poet,” he said. “I do have a rain puddle neon thing here.” He rifled through loose sheets he had printed out with their catalog numbers.
He read to her No. 4: Rain and No. 20: Umbrellas/Reflections.
“That is so cute,” she said. “So you look into a puddle on a rainy day.”
“And I see you and me staring back.”
“Was that a prophecy?”
He shook his head. “That was my heart, being hopeful. I wrote this as a teenager one day, daydreaming in class. And now you have made my dream come true.”
She pulled herself close, hugging his arm tightly as he sat on the bed beside her. “I love you, Marc. I will look at you from your puddle always.”
“And I will look for you in the best of puddles.”
She laughed. “Only the finest of puddles.”
“The ones reflecting beautiful neon lights.” He shoved his papers aside and kissed her passionately. She was ready for him. And so they made arduous, wet love again, filling the dark little room with their groans and cries of joy.
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