ceciliatan

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

In the morning–afternoon, actually–I asked him, while we were still lying in bed, “What did you call me last night?”

“Mphhh?” Ziggy said from where his face was buried in my hair, of which there was a lot in those days, even stick-straight as it was. He propped himself up slightly, just enough to get clear, and then flopped back on his pillow, his arms over his head. “What?”

“You called me ‘Dear One,’ I think. Or maybe I was too drunk to understand my own name.”

“I did call you Dear One,” he said, waking up a bit more. “And it was because it sounds like your name.”

“Ah.” I rolled onto my side to look at him but drowsiness was making my eyes close.

“Good idea,” he said, and snuggled close to me. His skin smelled like clove cigarettes and sex, which is about the best incense scent I could imagine. We dozed off.