I can’t sleep. I keep thinking about how your hands looked when you were breaking up weed or rolling it into a spliff or just holding it as you smoked. (That’s not why I can’t sleep. It’s just what I find myself doing since I’m awake anyway.) I guess I’m a little nostalgic about it. I remember when you came downstairs that night in Da Nang and I was on the couch in my twisted exile, not sleeping again.
I was feeling so irritated with the world and grateful for the distraction and the company. You were fucked up on pain and pain-meds, with your face all cut and bruised. There was something so fucking sexy about it. I don’t know why. So you sat there with me and rolled and smoked, like, three or four spliffs. You were talking about something in your low quiet middle-of-the-night voice, but I don’t remember what because I was so focussed on your hands. When you were done, you asked if I wanted to go upstairs and do some of that face fucking we’d been chatting about while you were away. I said ok and we pretty much got right down to business. Watching your hands was the only foreplay I got, and it was all I needed.