I was standing in the middle of the house, listening to the rhythm of an African back-beat. He entered the room and came straight for me. He grabbed me by a length of my hair and dragged me, out the back door, and around to the side of the house, pushed me up against the wall and kissed me. Kissed me real hard. Hard enough to give me a fat lip. He kissed me hard enough to become a part of my body. Our lip atoms mixed. For a moment our faces were linked in eternity. He pressed me up against the house and my elbows scraped against the rough siding. Scraped and bleeding. I was stoned with excitement. He said that he would have dragged me into the garage and ravished me except that he knew that there were snakes in there.
When we first got together we were inseperable. I always have thought that if we had been born into the same culture, either his or mine, we would be together forever. It’s those little cultural things that came between us, and suprisingly, it was the things about me that he respected the most that made him drift away. My independence. My creativity. He was the first, and only, man in my life that could accept me as I am. He could accept my strength. He could accept my opinions. He could accept my work. He could accept me.