John lying on his stomach at a slight diagonal across the foot of the bed: it is morning. He is basking in the breeze from our ceiling fan.
John walking ahead of me, in shirt and pants I built for him: we have learned to slow our gait for the heat. Whenever his shirt flutters against his back, the silk is instantly sweat-soaked darker.
John defending our mangos against theif-monkeys: I yell; he swings with the umbrella, after one monkey has ripped the plastic bag and spilled them over the cement. The umbrella hits the monkey hard enough to bend its top--the monkey recovers fast enough to pick up a mango and run. We recover the rest.
"It's strange hitting a monkey. Almost like hitting a person."
John sitting behind me, watching me try and fail to upload photos at an internet cafe: I am sinking into my frustration. Everytime I turn to him he smiles back at my sour-lime face.
John catching my finger on one of the pendulum swings of my arm: this is the edge of the bravery of our public affections in India.
John walking alone to his first tabla lesson in India: I imagine him--he leads with his chest.
John returning 'home': he searches my face for any sour-lime residue. We get to talking of dinner--
"I'm afraid Little Italy is going to be ninety-rupee ponies..."
--we dream up five million-dollar ideas. Then we go.
John at my right side: Who falls asleep first? Maybe me. I see his silhouette breathing against light filtered through the curtained window.
