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If I would write about this day from the future I would write about it this way:

I fall in love with you that morning, you were laying on the bed, still wrapped in that sweet sleep, the sleep that's wraps around you and that you make those little noises in your sleep to try and shake off. for the first time in a week I could smell that sweet sleep smell of you, warm, like bread and hot sweat.

I fall in love with you the day before, this is not our best time, I'm sick and you are sick, we are just wrapping 2 months of being without much frame or thought for the future, taking care of the present which was overflowing with important events. We are coughing and blowing are noses and pissing with the door open, in the first 3 days of sickness I didn't even changed my cloths or underwear, sleeping in them and walking, slowly, to the bathroom or the desk. and every time I cough to loudly, or spit in the sink, I'm scared to loose the last few fragment of mysterious femininity in your eyes. I'm scared that you'll notice the wight I gained and wrinkles that were added to my face since we've married.

The apartment was a mess, dishes in the sink, ginger and lemon pieces on the chop board, a pot of soup on the stove, probably should be thrown out by now, flies circling above it, the dining table covered in papers and books, a lot of cardboard boxes. the whole studio is a mess of craft supply and paints and socks and dirty underwear. I feel in love with you that day when there were one painting half done next to the bathroom and a whole bunch of prints on the table and another painting wrapped up that I need to take to the post office and send to a show in Berlin.

I'm pushing myself, and it's hard, I want to be an artist, the other day I was feeling as if the paintings that are here are meaningless because no one gets to see them, because I don't sell them and make money out of making art, but now, looking at that packed painting, that's covered in craft paper and bubble wrap, I don't feel like sending it, I don't want to let go, not so much because I want to save the painting, but because getting it out there is both scary and worthless. I'm not going to go to that exhibition in Berlin, it will only happened  in pictures and in my mind. By sending the painting out, I feel like in some strange alchemical magic, I'm turning it from an actual fact into an illusion, and idea. I can't for see it coming back or me getting a check in the mail for it. I feel like by covering it with bubble wrap and craft paper, I'm suffocating it  and by sending it, I'm burring it, never to return.

All the books I've read this week are about memory and lose. About turning back time by changing the memory of things.

That morning, laying in bed with you, I thought about the day before, about your face puffy with snot and sick, unshaven, standing in the middle of the studio with a piece of toilet paper stuck up your nose, to stop the bleeding. The sink is still covered with specks of your blood. I thought about how, looking at you, a moment before, pissing and bleeding into the sink and spitting, all at the same time, made me happy and sad and excited. There were so much of your humanity in that moment, weakness and strength and self - it was just you, all you, sick and funny and loving and beautiful in your humeness.

That morning, laying in bed with you, in one of the last days of summer, the air is heavy and not, I know I will not have the luxury of laying in bed with just a t-shirt on, over the covers, all warm, almost still asleep, I though how in that moment, in that rare moments of laying in bed and stroking your sleeping back and ass and kissing your face, I was not worried, not afraid at all that you'll leave me or go away or die. I could see, quite clearly, a future in which both of us are happy and old and together, and it didn't just feel true, it felt very close, as if I could just walk through the door and get there, this different place that is the same place only in a different time. Much closer then Israel, or even the post office.

But I stayed in bed with you, and I knew beyond a doubt that I'm not touching you and kissing you because I want to make you feel better or because I'm scared that you'll leave or because I'm used to, but that I was kissing you and touching you because I wanted to, because I was in love with you.