For Fabian

We are driving in a pink Cadillac
with a convertible top, feeling the air
drifting around us,
bringing us the scent of freedom.
Our laughter rolls along the way to a hotel
in California,
just as we laughed together at our meeting
on an autumn evening, surrounded by people,
yet seeing only each other.
White balconies are arranged
in a square missing one side
around a swimming pool.
You sit with your legs in the water.
A flamingo-shaped swim ring floats in it.
I rest on your knees, my legs
wrapped around your waist, my tongue conquers
your warm mouth. You hold me
in my new floral bikini –
a carnival of yellow, blue, dark pink,
a celebration of green, deep turquoise and light blue.
Your hands remove the fabric with a skillful
motion, just as they showed me
all the letters in sign language.
I am not lying on the bed in Holon.
You are not sitting in the cell in Livingston.
We are enjoying a dreamlike vacation
in California,
sipping Coca-Cola,
kissing by the edge of the pool.