Europeans

Europeans

by Eileen

"Je t'aime," he says, and maybe this time he means it. The Sicilian's hands are rough, weathered, his palms made callused by long months spent at sea during arduous cross-Pacific passages more demanding than the compact press of his mouth sealing around his. He smells like salt and sweat and the slow burn of tobacco wrapped in porous brown paper — in South America, he remembers that they used plantain leaves to roll them. His lover is almost as pliant, and unlike the medicinal herb relieves nothing. He aggravates his condition instead, making him want love more than he loves wanting.