Lisa could literally lift her up. Did once, gripped her at her waist with soft, dark (tanned, always tanned) fingers and raised her up, perching her on the kitchen counter in a single sweep and without a grunt or gulp of breath. It was a whirligig ride, a carnival swirl, a hoot, a giggle. It took her breath away at least, the rise, the laughter, what came after. (Lisa was a hungry girl sometimes, such a swimmer.)
These were their honeymoon days. Lisa could lift you, lift even a word so hokey into something exact. A honey moon: not full but gibbous. slightly swollen, ripe, the curve and color of tropical fruit (what were their names? she never could remember: mango or papaya, threads of gold in your teeth and the honey sweet astringency on your broad tongue ).
It was a sitcom at first, like Ricky Ricardo sweeping Lucy off her feet, when she lifted and propped her up on the counter. Tropical fruit.
"Is that how you think of me?" she was hurt. "Lucy to your Ricky, foolish and noisy."
"My god," said Lisa, laughing helplessly, "You sound like a gay boy! You should hear yourself: is that how you think of me, wah-wah-wah like Lucy... No, darling, I've always seen you as darker, more Rhoda than Lucy, less the whining orangutan more the tuft of dark, unwanted hair..."
They laughed. They laughed. It was good. They laughed. Honey moon.