With a bottle of 12 year old Glenlivet
ice in the glass
the heat hanging in the streets
we played the movie
and so again,
I was taken back.


Back
In the dull light of a sparsely furnished mansion
on an outcrop overlooking a shanty town by the ocean
we waited for our taxi.
The moon was high and full
as roaches scurried
and Anna,
out on the veranda,
was sitting pretty.

"Look! There's a big storm coming."
She began to take off her shoes,
then her clothes.
Stripped down to her underwear,
she turned to look at me.
"Sorry, are you freaked out?"
She grinned mischievously.
"I forgot, you're British."

I stood there in my neat shirt
neat trousers
clean, polished shoes,
drenched in sweat
a full glass of Jameson's in my hand,
and laughed.

"No" I said.
"Don't mind me. I'm enjoying the show."

Admiring her body, the small tattoo on her lower back,
I watched and wondered how I'd come to be here
in this cinematic moment
in this new world.

I had arrived in the country the night before.
I had brought only one set of clothes,
the wrong kind of clothes,
and a guitar.
The others had already left for the bar down by the ocean.
Anna and I were to follow,
when the movie had ended
and the taxi had made its way through the sticky, mosquito buzzing dark.

A deep and booming explosion
echoed from the walls of the jungle clothed mountains,
ricocheted around the shanty city,
and all the wild dogs began to howl.
Instantly, the heaven's opened.

Anna stood on the edge of the Veranda,
her toes curled over the side,
her chest, resting on the rails.
The generator whirred and whined, as the fuel ran out
and the lights flickered into dark.
Flashes of bright blue
the loudest thunder of my life
and the most glorious torrent of warm water
drumming down upon Anna's supple gymnast body.
Her hair soaked,
was no longer golden.

She giggled like a child
and said
"You've got to feel this. It's so fucking amazing!"
And I stepped out into the rain.

This was the first night with Anna,
and one that would become
quite ordinary.
I did not know it then,
but living this way
in the grip of constant thrill,
sensation and elation
would take its toll.
It had already taken its toll on Anna.
She could never be still,
could never find the right temperature.
Always needed fresh rain from the heavens
and a storm to break the day.

I loved her then,
and in some ways,
I love her still.
Today she called me from another new situation,
from some state in crisis,
in some new state of crisis,
and crying down the phone
asked:
"Was I terrible? Tell me it wasn't all so bad."

She calls and talks of children.
"My time is running out" she says.
"Wouldn't we have had beautiful babies?" she invites.
 "It's never been like that again. We were special," she claims
and in this way,
Anna leads me through her hillside house of pity
and breaks my heart.