SALT

by

Diana Adams

Sometime between dawn and early morning his arm, or the crook of his arm, falls over my mouth. My tongue, not participating in sleep at that moment, seeks out his flesh on its own accord. There in the fleshy crook, so much like a fish's underbelly, I taste the sharp twang of salt. I am murky with sleep but my basic sense, taste, is on high alert. The smooth elasticity of his skin acts like a bland blini wafer to offset the rich saltiness of caviar. Was this the salt of exertion? No, not really. We had only lazily made love after Beaujolais and antipasti last night. Where did this salt come from?

Somewhere in the osmosis of our relationship, there was a leak. The vessel of viscous fluid that moves from strong to weak has been pierced like a garden hose. Last night hadn't been all that great, and now I worried that there is something fundamentally wrong. Like all good relationships the strength-holder in our relationship keeps changing on a regular basis: I am good at lists, folding, cooking and basketball. He is good at pretty much everything else except camping, and he would never be any good at gardening.

I roll over onto my side and the salty arm follows, resting on my shoulders. He sleeps as deeply as Odysseus after his travels. I wonder what kind of salt he is made of. There are many kinds of salt: salt from dried ocean beds all over the world, salt from the earth. His salt is not at all reminiscent of the Mediterranean, nor is it like the brownish smoky flavour of the black salt of India. Brittany with its hint of lavender and rosemary would have never produced this salt. What is the geography of his salt? Would I ask him this when he woke up? No, Probably not. He isn't any good at geography either.

I taste his arm again. Rock salt. Mined out of the earth in solid chunks, yes that was his type of salt. The kind of salt used in preservation, or placed in grinders at the table. There is some comfort in this. My man is the salt of the earth and he could possibly be used to make ice cream.

Odysseus rolls over. I get up in the semi-darkness of the room and open the window. It is already getting hot and humid, and I can hear the neighbourhood dogs getting restless. 'Where did you go?' He asks thickly, propped up on his elbows and still caught in the underground tunnels of sleep.

'I'm right here.' For God's sake don't be one of those desperate women. My mother's warnings come back to me repeatedly, like water dripping on my forehead.

'Hmm, come back to bed…'

All thoughts of my mother recede. I crawl onto his hot body and smooth the tight black curls away from his face. I can see that he is leaps ahead of me this morning; happy and rested after a night of uncomplicated dreams. He is already running in a field. He is a dog wagging his tail at the sight of his owner after a long absence. I am the deer licking the salt by the side of the road risking my life to cars. But you can get used to avoiding cars. Sure, maybe there is a leak. But who can really hold water anyway?

§ § §

Diana Adams is an Alberta based writer looking for a home for her novel 'The Taste of Blue.' Her work can been seen in the July issue of Literary Potpourri, Pindeldyboz and poetry in Jones Av. Diana is obsessed with food and literature; so far these interests have kept her in very good company.

She can be reached at: write_diana@hotmail.com.

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