Her accent had a certain fragrance. Wafted by her quick moving tongue, it would faintly and seductively present itself. Her lips would clamber over long, simple words with such eloquence that others would simply relish her lipstick conveyers and fail to recall the bad parts. I was not in love with her- an overall image of ordinary; I fell for her individual dialect collected behind two plush femininities. I wanted to translate my linguistic prowess unto her tongue and feel the same level of intensity. Breaking down each word into segments of nothing more than a sound, a noise without connotation, would slowly take me into chaos. Would I fall for her lips? A trained actress in an American accent would lose its nuance.
No, I mustn’t teach her proper speech. What flavor is a language if all insipid? Those cherry chapped lips must preserve their struggle. Her tongue must collect in different spots behind her front teeth, never to figure out their secret to sexuality. I want to savor these conversations for all they are worth. Feed me your nightly conversations, dear.