Dear diary,
I cannot believe I skipped letter Q, and no one told me. Nice joke, who could've told me, if it's a diary, right? And no one will ever read it but me. Q, such a precious letter, worth a whopping ten points in Scrabble. I've never had enough time and later, a relationship that was normal enough to play Scrabble. Will I ever do those things, like playing board games, trimming rose bushes, or touching up that white fence with a paintbrush?
Interesting that in English the word ‘question' does start with Q, but none of the question words do. What, where, when, why, and who, all start with W, something to explore when the time comes for letter W. Quite different from all other Romance languages. A useful Q is at the head of many important phrases, like Quo Vadis, Que Sera, Sera, or Quelle Surprise.
Gotcha ya, didn't I? Beside English, I'm fluent in French and Spanish, and somewhat understand Italian. Why does everyone assume that the ballet dancers are dumb and good only for stretching their legs or better spreading them? No, I didn't read Anna Karenina or Don Quixote, I danced in them. Didn't end up well for me, but what a girl to do with all the spare time, all of a sudden? Fortunately, that house in Hudson Valley had a magnificent library, passed down through generations. A comfy leather couch, a book, and a snack, that's how I spend my lazy afternoons, with Aldous back in the city.
Questions, questions, questions. The biggest one being, why the real Nick, from what I could observe in the little time I spent with him, very much liked to be led, behind closed doors, and I was fine with it. Admittedly, the kinkiest thing we tried was the lotus position. While in my dreams, Nick always takes charge, no matter how much I whine or hesitate, we end up doing things his way. And in my dreams, we do everything imaginable.
“Why is this night different from all others?” My sincere apologies for stealing the sacred line from the Passover story. A story that dates back to the Middle Ages and being retold at every Passover table every year all around the world. Let my people go. No, I'm not Jewish, but my closest friend N. is. I happened to spend the Passover week with her and her family in Brooklyn years ago. Her husband's family is Orthodox, she became Orthodox because of him. It's a way of life that can only be compared to the Amish. Passover is a high holiday, everything and everyone has a purpose and a special meaning. The lamb shank bone on the Passover plate represents the sacrifice. The nuts and wine mix is similar to a mortar used to lay the bricks of the pyramids in Egypt. The egg is, of course, a symbol of life. Bitter herbs remind of the bitterness of slavery. Avadim hayinu, we were slaves, another famous line. Talk about holding grudges, N. joked. All that happened six thousand years ago.
My job, since I didn't know how to cook or clean properly, was to practice that single line in Hebrew with N.’s youngest son, back then he was three years old. A question that the little boy will ask as part of the retelling of the Exodus story, ma nishtana. The little boy already knew how to sing all the songs, but it's one thing to sing together, and a completely different one, to recite the question, loud and clear, in front of a table with thirty relatives. “Why is this night different from all others?”
I will burn in hell, I have no shame mixing up the memories of that truly blessed night with my smut ridden fantasies. But my question still stands, isn't it the holy grail of all of our perverted dreams, to combine the divine with the sin? To mold it into divine smut?
