Elkhana
For each of the last ten days I have thought of him and the embrace we shared in that strange vision of what was not to be. I felt the warmth of him in the memory-that-was-not-a-memory. It agitates me when I try to think of anything else. It pushes at me to acknowledge that I can still smell the bergamot on his breath and still feel how thick his biceps were as they wrapped around my body and how gently his hands touched me, that I can still feel the brush of his rough-shaven chin against the top of my hair.
The apple vanished with me when I returned to a year of night – but I think of it, too, and I dream of what it might have tasted like if my mouth was not filled with mayflies – if I could have taken a single, sweet bite.
I am ashamed of how often I think of it – think of him. Because that wanting makes me a traitor to my people. And even after forty days, I haven’t been able to decide if I hate them or love them. If I want to give them what they need or if I want to deny them.
I’m less undecided about him. Every day, I can’t help hoping that he will be one of those who visit me. I can’t help but watch for pointed ears and sniff the air for the scent of bergamot.
Which is ridiculous, because even if he does come back, he’ll be coming to see a vision, not to embrace me – certainly not through these bars. I am a tool. I will only ever be a tool. All else has been taken from me.
Seekers come day after day, bringing with them their hopes and terrors, but he is not among them.
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