The Hydra (the 'Ingrid cycle') - part 3

-You came here on a motorbike?
-With my daughter for four days. Yesterday we drove to see the temple of Poseidon.
-At Sounion?
-You’ve seen it? You have been there?
(‘To the Wedding’, 1995, by John Berger)

... so you were lying in a Greek bed, Ingrid - on Hydra, Leonard-Cohen-island in the Aegean. And at night i quoted Eliot to you while you were half asleep, drunk, and those masts in the fishing port werd chinking, and the low Aegean sky weeping, weeping...

And the next day we were having breakfast in the early afternoon sun, and you started humming that song-

“Like a bird on the wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free”

Leonard Cohen indeed. I reach out, my index on your left mouth corner, wiping away the feta, and you try to bite my index and then you smile the whitest feta smile i would ever see in my life. And with your tongue you try to get it off your cheeks but your tongue isn’t long enough so i finish the job and this time you don’t bite. You behave, for once. Then we kiss the longest pre-covid-19 feta kiss ever and i start loving you a bit. A little bit. Let’s say 0 point 5 percent. “I love you for the full 2 percent,” you answer.

And not even 5 seconds later you say “i want to catch a boat”, so we catch the hydrofoil back. “I show you Sounion,” i say. “Lord Byron left an inscription in a rock near Poseidon’s temple.” But of course you’re not listening. “Byron, who fought the Turks.” You look at me, you say “You’re a moron, you know that?” And i nod. “We both are, darling. We’re two morons standing above a ship’s hull, looking over the waves.” And you light a cigarette and say, “Oh you're so poetic, you fool, who do you think you are, Leonardo di Caprio?”, and i say, "i am, Rose, i am", and murmuring "you're such an utter fool" you climb upon the bow, you crazy borderliner, and only when we finally have struck the Titanic pose we notice we're at the back bow, not the front and you whisper,

"Use the words 'women' and 'reading maps' in one sentence now, Jack, and you're dead meat."

(to be continued)

(Painting 'Le Plaisir de Fumer', by Jean Gouweloos - 1866-1943.)

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