I smile when you turn your head and a lock of hair scatters on your cheek like a teenager’s clothes on his bathroom floor. Your body pushing through envelopes of air, a recent paper on Quantum Physics wedged between your knotty fingers. I sit at the far end of the table, watch your reflection on the mahogany as you read, raise your head, and glance at me. It still makes me shiver with excitement. Then you look outside and fixate on a hole of light in our lawn where some weeds have miraculously appeared overnight. God knows from where, but it does not bother you. I can tell that you are still mesmerized with the recent discovery of the Higgs particle.
* * *
Our B&W pictures scroll down the staircase. Your hair, more grey than black. My nervous fingers laced in yours, hopeful for a ring. My cleavage firm and grainy enough to hide the mark your gold tooth left not too long ago. Eyes growing moist waiting for the flash, combing the dry air. We dance, knees touching, on our two-year anniversary of moving in together, and while I think of fucking you in the backyard making a freak out of myself, you mention the upcoming conference: the fundraiser dinners, the sponsors, the new experiment, the next excitement. The pending explanation inside another particle accelerator. The untouched, babbling brook of quarks. Soon we can start farming feelings, you say.
* * *
I fill the flutes. You adjust your tie, give me that good-natured wink and gulp the champagne. My black dress sits above my thighs, your ponytail looks slick as an oiled fish. Ready, you ask and I nod. Outside the sunlight has lost the battle with rowdy clouds. It always rains, you say, and open the umbrella. The limo waits like a black hole. Water slides to our sides and I feel my stomach acid rising. Something tickling my gullet. That extra rank in the air. Of stepping into a parallel universe and losing my faults. Of waiting for reason to arrive. Of the sky unable to cover us at all times and my sullen, bare fingers pulling out the weeds at night.