I like to say that my lover is going through her grease period. 

And it's art, really, when Tessa wraps her arms around my waist from behind, her hands like cold sandpaper resting against my warm belly.   Tessa raps her fingers against that drum until I quiet them, one hand at a time, one finger at a time, and try to dig the motor oil out from under her nails with my own.   It spreads like darkened honey over the skin of our fingers.

"You're making it worse," Tessa says, kissing my neck.  

I laugh, mostly to myself, because I know the truth is that Tessa
likes it, everything about it, particularly the smell of the oil on her skin, ground into the stiching of her jeans and t-shirt.  

Tessa unwraps herself, goes to the kitchen sink to wash up.  I watch
her ignore the dishes in the sink, letting the dirty soap spill down
around the silverware and pans, letting the grey suds steep against
what we eat from, close our mouths around.

"What's for dinner?" she asks.  

I shrug even though Tessa can't see.  I watch the blades of her
shoulders move, pushing and pulling against the fabric of her shirt,
first taut then lax.   She turns, faces me.  I smile while handing
her a dish towel.  She wipes her hands.

"What do you want to eat?"

She shrugs, looks through me, and I wonder what she's thinking.

When she walks past me toward the family room she kisses my cheek.  I hear her stepping out of her boots, kicking them against the wall.  I imagine them leaving a stain, smudges that won't come out no matter how much cleaning fluid I use.

But it's not until I hear the back door open and swing shut, see
Tessa walking across the back lawn to her bike, faded red rags dangling from her waist band, that I love and hate her most.   I watch through the square kitchen window, see the pink bottoms of her bare feet flapping away at me like small palms waving goodbye.

Tessa wheels out the cycle from the back shed, sets it up on the
stand, and drops the bottle of wax beside her.   I watch her bend at
the knees, kneel beside the front wheel.  She coats the rag with wax
then slides it in and out, in and out of the spokes, around the rims,
over the black metal of the carriage.   Then with another rag she
makes small circles over the carriage, getting larger and larger as
she goes, wiping away the white of the wax until the metal gleams.
She rubs the cycle the way she used to rub me—gentle but with
pressure in the fingertips, slow but purposeful, constant but
maddening.

The water from the edge of the sink seeps through my jeans.  I feel
the cool wetness against my skin but don't move away.  The tv is
jangling in the other room that someone has just won ten thousand
dollars.   The kitchen clock ticks.  The refrigerator hums.  My breath
goes in and out.  In and out.