But it's my only respite, my addiction. It's the only way to see his face and imagine his kiss. I see him so clearly in my mind's eye, a lifetime of habits I had unconsciously stored, all being played out as never before. His eyes, lashes with gook in the corners. His nose, and the rhino mark rising from its tip. His thin lips, his uneven stance, and a voice. His voice. Calling out my name. He says, "Natasha!" and I wonder if he calls me in rage or with affection. It could be either, the script is written by me. But he calls. And I hear his voice, only in my mind.
Realizing this, I awake in anger. In agony, I curse reality. Often I call out to him, hoping, praying, wishing for an answer. The only reply is anger.
His fingers I hold in mine,and I feel his stubby hands as I look at my own. Oh I remember! I remember everything. And my stomach turns in sweet agony.
I yearn. How I yearn.