I couldn't understand your accent and you couldn't understand my slang but I understood your giggle and your wiggle and you my breathlessness. It was fun for a time, you Russian and me, me, and there being no word for us.
Or was there?
Maybe dalliance might work. Perhaps a summer. Perhaps abandonment, or abandoning if we are remembering with fondness. Or perhaps we were just fuck buddies. But the nights grew cold and I could tell you'd grown tired of not using your mother tongue and I'd run out of mimes. It’s a lonely place when your jokes are yours and yours alone.
I tired explaining, there's no word for our disconnect. You pulled that bemused enticing face which always made me want to a) smile b) fuck you. You’d talk dirty when I was inside you and I’d have no idea what you were saying but I loved hearing the words. You could have been reciting your shopping list because the truth was that shrug of your shoulders and upturned palms, my puppy eyes and our sad flimsy goodbye. It was fun, but there was no word for us.
