“Don’t you get homesick?”

I smile, close my eyes, feel her run a hand over my face, which makes me laugh.

“Well, don’t you?”

I turn in bed and face her.

“There are times I think I would give up a finger to be home.”

She cackles at this.

“You think I’m joking. I’m dead serious.”

“Ok.”

“If an angel came to me and said, Nathan, in exchange for your left pinky finger, I’ll let you be at home sitting on your couch with your father, watching college basketball, drinking beer. Or, you’re sitting at a diner with your friends bullshitting about nothing and drinking coffee, all of you so easy with each other that you’re not thinking, you’re just reacting, honestly. Or,” I catch myself and stop.

“Or what?”

“Or. You’re in your old apartment in bed with Susanna half naked, reading, talking about poems, or childhood memories, just talking with such openness, not worrying about looking stupid, or thinking about whether the other person likes you, just feeling like myself, unbridled. I think I’d give up a finger for that.”

Eventually she kisses me on the cheek.

“So why don’t you just go then?”

“Because none of that exists anymore. So yes, I get homesick. But it’s homesick for things that don’t exist.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what that feels like. I’m the opposite. I get restless.”

“You know what’s worst?”

“What?”

“Missing my nephew. My brother and my nephew.”

Her eyes are closed, but she’s smiling at the ceiling. I kiss her on her ear. “Afti,” she says quietly. I kiss her on the cheek. “Maguolo,“ she says; still her eyes are closed. I kiss her on the mouth; her lips are chapped; “stoma.” I kiss her closed eye-lid. “Mm, mati.” I kiss her neck. “Laimos,” she giggles. At her shoulder, she whispers, “omos.” I bite her nipple. “Stithos.”

“And the heart?”

Eyes closed, she smiles, exhales, lets her whole body unfurl. “Cardia.”

“Cardia. Makes sense.” I rest a finger on her hip. “Here?”

“Ischio,” she winces slightly.

“Ischio.” Laughter, from her, like the sound of birds suddenly taking to flight.

Stomachi. Gonato. Miro. Mouni.

“Ah, mouni, mouni,” she says. “Now that’s a word you should learn.”