The syllables of your name unfold lasciviously. Nabokov would appreciate their sensuous musicality. In fact, I think I would quite like to be trapped in one of his novels with you. The witty, nonself-conscious wordplay and the subtext would make us feel at ease. And as we lied on the grass in his world of clever writing, expiring in the sun and watching Lolita play tennis I would possibly summon the courage to tell you that I find your presence calming; that your manner feels homely. The rhythmical sound of Lolita’s racket hitting the ball would remind me -just in time – that we are in a Nabokov novel, where cheesiness is a crime. I would stop to listen to the slavic tinge in your English and then make a disaffected remark about Khodorovsky’s trial, just to hear you speak for longer. And this nirvanic mixture of sounds and mutual repressed feelings would fill me with a simple and light contentment.
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