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2002-03-27 - 12:45 a.m. Berlin I asked, 'What year did they tear down the Wall?', and H answered, off-the-point as usual, that Bono had held a concert to commemorate the sledgehammer celebrations. I wasn't sure this was right, and secretly I speculated that H had made the confusion because of an album called Achtung Baby. There are many things I don't tell him, and this is like me spraying graffiti (breathless with my own neon and aerosol rage) on the side of the wall where he is not. London We fed pigeons in the square, throwing confettis of breadcrumb onto the cobbled stones. The birds flocked towards us, tame and inquisitive, until H suddenly made a mad whooping sound and scared them off. They scattered in a flurry of torn lace and papery wingbeats, a harried runaway bride. At the altar they vacated, I saw us through stratospheric avian eyes: two specks by the fountain, H holding my hand and cooing softly, urgently, 'Marry me, marry me.' Havana 'This is the kingdom of real men,' H said, eyeing the rugged beaches, the wastelands of tired and tyreless Cadillacs. The balconies are ornate, trellised, but made of iron. The sea is all sweat. There is a law in biceps and cigarettes. Suddenly we hear the mambo of Xavier Cugat wafting from a house with blue curtains. H, we can arm-wrestle now, and settle this once and for all. Or we can slow-dance and dream the paradox of rose tattoos. Reykjavik In my diary entry the night before I had written: 'Around our hearts are chains of icicles.' H asks around for the best places to watch seal-hunting as I trail behind him, sullen and distracted. H and I had not exchanged a single word since morning. Wisest of fjords, tell him that chains of ice do not need ice-picks. If only one of us would open his mouth, the word tumbling out will glow like an ember in the snow.
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