I woke her up this morning by sliding inside of her. I took her quietly from behind, slipping my hands between her thighs and starting slowly. She moaned before she woke, the sun fire lighting the sky. I like days like this. I love her green hair and her dark brown eyes, her eleven fingers, the way she paints her weekly henna. I rhapsodize about it, I’m sorry. You always have to hear of her, I know. She’ll be going back to the colony soon. I’m going to really miss her. It’s hard when she’s away. I lie awake at night, staring at the ceiling and dreaming of her tongue dripping ice-water on to my belly by candlelight. That was my favourite anniversary. When we celebrated spur of the moment with a picnic basket and a beachside fire. The ice-bucket with wine had been my idea and the marshmallows on sticks was hers. Sand and silk, clear liquid and hot fire. It was glorious with the stars above singing to us. The salt water ocean delicious on her lips, I licked every drop of water off her body. She’s in the shower now, she’d blush if she knew I was writing this. It’s my little secret, this journal.