Tuesday, April 27

New green sheets, and I don't bother to wake up until almost 8 a.m. He films me while I'm waking up, stretching slowly like a cat; a close-up on my eyes as I roll them in his direction. He films me as I climb out of bed, my stomach shadowed by the curve of my ribs, scars peeking out from the top of my flannel pants. He films me brushing my teeth and us having breakfast ("a kiss," he said, "to break the fast," but I didn't fall for it).

And then later, perfect equitation, finding my place on the back of a horse. In the playback I can barely tell where my body ends and the horse's begins; such is the communion we took part in. Riding bareback, so there is no flash of silver stirrups or saddle to hold me away from the animal's heaving back as we go through a hunter course together.

By 2 I'm sick from not eating and I curl up on the green sheets again with a John Grisham book. He films then, too, but the camera is turned away from my face when he brings in an old electric typewriter. I jump out of bed and write three pages of gibberish to break it in while he pretends he's not pleased.

At dinner time I let him make me vegetable soup, one of those recipes from Luke that always leaves you feeling clean and new. I tell myself it doesn't count because soup is not a solid, despite the pieces of vegetables and he might've slipped in some chicken, too. Afterwards I have a frappuccino and call off the fast, but only until Saturday.


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