The first year, I would hold your hands, smile at you, spoon you as the big spoon, my breasts and tummy against your back, the fronts of my thighs against the backs of your thighs. If you fell asleep, that would be fine. I’d caress your arms. I’d kiss your hands, a blessing to your future. I’d especially like the very tips of your fingers and the middle of each palm, this slow relationship.
The second year, I would progress to kissing your shoulders. You’d take off your shirt for me, and I would watch. I’d kiss each shoulder blade, then up and down your spine. I would learn how the expanse of your back feels with my hands. I would massage your upper trapezius muscles, where my own body aches, to see if you need what I need.
The third year, I would be so happy–it would be time for me to touch your chest, gently press your large pecs, kiss each clavicle so tenderly, the bottom of your throat, and your tummy. I’d stroke your chest hair and sternum and call you “sweet friend.” I’d kiss your neck also, so quietly, and whisper, “You’re beautiful and good.” I’d press my ear to your heart and listen inside your chest to a rhythm you know very dearly.
The fourth year, you would unfasten your pants for me, and your dick would appear, unsubtle and ready. This would be known as The Year of the Blow Job. The tears at the corners of my eyes as I gagged would shine. Your semen would become an important source of nourishment for me, pumped down my throat almost daily. I’d also cup your knees, stroke your legs, slap your ass, and pet your feet, thanking them for walking to me.
The fifth year, you would understand I was a good place to ejaculate. You’d slip your dick inside the privatest place of my body, feeling my muscular cunt around you, and the warm wet goodness of my body. Then you’d fuck me insistently and hold me as I came, enjoying my body’s ample softness. Then another few shoves, and your own body would come. I would accept its spasms and each drop of semen as you bumped my cervix.
Then we would have done the thing. You could think of new activities, depending on what else you had going on. Or you could move to another country.
You could become a shepherd on some green grassy hillsides, enjoying the sunshine. Sometimes you’d remember how I felt about you, as you paused for water at a spring.
You could become a businessman in Asia and wear a suit all the time, eating the same foods every day. Alive in the rush of commerce and motion, light.
You could work at a call center in a cold northern place, and step outside wearing a scarf over your mouth, on your breaks, to watch the snow fall down, remembering a moment I was the one who fell asleep, clinging to your back the first year, and something I said in my sleep you half-understood.
“I barely even knew her then,” you’d mutter. You’d wonder if it was good to emigrate, and if my slow relationship love was something you wanted to keep or something to let go of.
I would remain in the desert and light a candle for your well being on a winter night, thinking about everything I learned.