untitled.

It was meant to be nothing. Initially, it was a bottle of wine and a knife and fork. It was dinner and dancing, and then I went home and slept in my own bed, and though the image of his hands burned in my head for the next week, it was meant to be nothing.

But we began to write.

Each written word went farther into the fauna and flora of our lives, until the forests he wrote of became what I wanted to live in, and somehow, seamlessly, we moved from writing of our own separate lives into writing one shared new woodland into being. It is possible neither to quantify nor qualify the life we wrote for ourselves.

I knew for sure that we both had a firm clasp on the typewriter when we melted. Like wax we became warm and thick. Almost visceral was our melting. We succumbed to the heat, and we began to drip into down into each other’s crevasses. In the process we regressed from form into mere substance, layers of hot proteins and pectin intermingled with the sticky warm honey of our beehive cores. In this state of deliquescence we began our ascent of mountains while around us the horsemen and their 7 heralding angels raged and roared. We climbed until, suddenly, we were pushed closer into each other by our arrival at the mountain’s crown.We were hands clasped tight and sweat-drenched. We looked out at the view from this mountainous peak and watched at the sun set carefully into its nook in the east. At the realization of the wrongness of this act on that star’s part, suddenly I found myself soaked in sugar-water and lemonade and with a gasp I began to draw air again.

After months of melting and writing, my belly began to bloom. We imagined the cluster of cells within me as the pit within the plum. We spoke of my plum-fleshed womb and its contents (what we had begun to think of as the corporal avatar of our collaborative flora and fauna), more often than we spoke of ourselves. It is possible neither to quantify nor qualify the life we began to write for ourselves.

And then, the afternoon of a honey-hot, sauna-sticky day in July: we were picking berries. We plucked them from the stalks where they grew and as I held them in my hand I felt a strain and bubble next to the delicate flesh on my palm. The searing skin of my thumb and forefinger blistered next to the screaming fruit. And then, like a revelation, the plum burst, splitting itself asunder at the seams, revealing a parcel of flesh so red that at first I wanted to mistake it for a scoop of muscle stolen from the ribcage of some dying horse or human. It burned my retinas to look at. I felt its juices dripping down my limbs, burying and burrowing into the flesh of the inside of my knees. But where the juice of this plum should have been bloody, should have been redder than a sea of broken bodies, it was clear and sweet and I felt it had come from the hollow recesses of a body, or the pit of an eye. Where it should have stained my skin it simply lay sweet and unassuming, and understanding how the nothing juice could have come from such a something fruit was impossible. So we licked impossible nectar from the hidden corners of each other's bodies, and ate soothingly bright berry flesh out of each other's palms, before going home and realizing that we had broken our tongues on the little pit (which was now embedded in the pink flesh of our gums), and on the thousand things we knew we had just eaten a metaphor for.

It is possible neither to quantify nor qualify the life I had written for us.

I ached to write. I ached to write that baby into existence and to hear its heartbeat on the speakers. In my imagination, we would record that perfect thumping and play it during dinner to remind us of its presence; as I bloomed we would metamorphose all together and emerge at the end of those long growing months as a family.

I passed the days after that honey sauna day in my own arms. I noticed our bodies to exist no longer on the apex of geology; I noticed that suddenly we were entrenched in ice. And we began to freeze. In freezing, our heat was lost, our molecules began to move with less urgency, and we began to solidify. With this solidity our oneness was undermined, and slowly, slowly, we peeled apart like clasped and sweaty hands gradually separating.








ten points to anyone who can summarize the plot for me.
(actually please do that, i need to know if it's interpretable)