In bed that Saturday morning, I felt like a ready made sculpture with her lying next to me. Something simple, but elegant, like Duchamp's Fountain, only we were more than porcelain, just shy of perfect. We were two people locked together like a pair of shoes tossed in a corner, their laces caressing their soles. I didn't move for fear of disturbing the serenity of our sculpted, affectionate stillness; I just smiled and, every now and then, maybe every five minutes or so, pressed a gentle kiss on her cheek, her neck, the bridge of her nose, her lips.
The six o'clock sun shown through Boston into my bedroom, decking us in hues of gold, lighting my navy comforter and casting the fine silhouettes of our arched backs, shoulder blades, and legs up on my wall.
I hesitated the calm and moved to put some music on. Radiohead rippled through the golden room, and with my eyes closed, I fell further into the dream of being a sculpture with her. Maybe we were two pencils, one lying at a slight angle over the other. Perhaps we were the pages of a weathered book, together through years of pressure under a pile of other novellas and works of fiction. Or perhaps, ultimately, we were simply two people, affectionately happy in each others' arms on a Saturday morning in February.
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