SIGBRITT was making a frittata. She was in the little yellow kitchen with its dim yellow lighting and she was very excited. Her flame of yellowblonde hair was open and loose and messy. Sigbritt was making frittata in the old school way, sprinkling breadcrumbs on top of the mix, cooking it over a low heat in a cast iron pan. Who had taught her the recipe? Her hair and skin reflected back the light from the kitchen. Soon she would put it in the oven to finish up.
Each time she added an ingredient, she leapt up, and each time she jumped, I caught her breast in my mouth. Sigbritt was not very tall and she was still very clothed, in a silky green-gray blouse. With each leap of happiness, I gave her another lick. “But I have a boyfriend, but I have a boyfriend, but I have a boyfriend,” she said and teased me. As she chanted, her blue eyes sparkled. “His name is Giovanni, his name is Giovanni, his name is Giovanni!” “I don’t care, I don’t care,” I said, suckling Sigbritt. First one, then the other. First the left and then the right. “So what, so what, so what?”
north! 