8:109) chris abraham 02-FEB-98 9:09

i was 21, and with no degree yet, and with no money, and with no certain great expectation, in my heart of hearts i believed i was protecting her when i said we couldn't. i was protecting myself, i was frightened. i was spineless. i was jealous of my future. there was nothing to be jealous of, its real shite.

in my arms, this rose anglais, this petite femme. blond, gangly, smooth-bodied, limber, flexible, bright, quick, sensual, bilingual as we worked together in the half sleep of lovers, in the student cell in the narrow attached student house.

in the uk, it is easier to bathe than shower in the uk, it is easier to take cold water than hot in the uk, tea warms better than the showers, little electric kettles on the wall, heating the trickled shower spout, heating enough not to make so much sick, but sickly -- or strong.

in the attached student house, the cell, the bed. her hair up in a bun, her pale soft british thighs, rich white chocolate made of cadbury, pressed to the wooden chair, the soft cotton pj's, the little bears, the little figures, the sweet innocents of soft cotton pajamas.

working on german trans; EUR, the school. scratching alien words on alien landscapes. showing me the english, showing me the words, jumbled from her lips, like tossled blond hair. the german verbs, the heavy haze of sleep, the soft lilt of the voice, soft lips passing thick aryan words, passing like fire hose pressure.

sleep and her voice, sleep and her words, "what? what was that?" "you're not listening are you?" "Yes of course, i just missed that, what you said," i lied. "its almost valentine's day" "yes, its almost valentine's day."