And they’ll all ask: “Well, how was it?”

And I’ll have nothing to say.

Spending the night alone drinking Dancing Bull wine in the cemetery, attuned to every creaking tree and occasional whoosh in clustered bush and expanse of monument-ridden grass, watching the stars re-constellate the fate of all, ignoring the ghostly gossip which is no more interesting than that of the living human variety, imagining a lover cuddled aside me on the grass under the tutelage of a moon-aspiring obelisk, I planting kisses first just above her right eye and then on her temple and onto her ear, there more kisses and soft licks purring and little nibbles and dirty whispers, fingers lightly tracing letters in intricate sensuous patterns upon her cheek, neck and shoulders, spelling out the words ‘love’ and ‘fuck’ in an ancient arcane cuneiformic ritual—feeling being more important than the meaning of the words to the mind, spinning her around, spooning and cuddling more for a time, and then kneeling behind her, reaching around and unbuttoning and slipping off her blouse, and embedding little rows of barely-touching kisses upon her neck and shoulders, then down along her shoulder blades and back, licking not her skin but only the tips of her soft back fuzz making her back tingle with the hover of my attention, my hands having held her around the waist firmly now massaging her between her ribs, slowly working down to her pelvis, roaming fingers scouting in loops of progressive circles the v-zone in her panties just above her genitals—ah, she’s excited as I’m excited and she begins to moan and moan and moan…

And they’ll all ask: “Well, how was it?”

And I’ll have absolutely nothing to say.