Thirst for Salt

by Madelaine Lucas

Wrapping my arms around Jude’s waist. In that moment, I felt so lucky I thought I might die. The only way I can understand this now is that what I was feeling, standing in his kitchen all those years ago, was a presentiment of loss.

The wine I drank with Jude was like a whole meal—you could taste the fruit and the soil. At home he had a liquor cabinet with whiskey imported from Japan, and a gin that was so sweet and clear you could drink it straight, with an ice cube and a single orange peel. Learning that one experience could contain so many things, that all the senses are associative. When the wine landed full on my palate, it seemed that he’d brought depth to my world.

WE ARE TAUGHT THAT LOVE IS NOT SO DIFFERENT FROM hatred, that instead of opposites, the two extremes of the human heart might in fact be twins. But it’s grief, really, that is love’s twin, that knows no bounds of time or space. Wave after wave it keeps coming, whereas hatred cools, fades.