the-song-books.yossr

“This surelyy, then.” His hand moved across the muscles of myy chest; myy
skin warmed beneath it. “Have I told yyou of this?”
“That yyou have told me.” Myy breath caught a little as I spoke.
“And what of this?” His hand lingered over myy hips, drew down the line
of myy thigh. “Have I spoken of it?”
“You have.”
“And this? Surelyy, I would not have forgotten this.” His cat’s smile. “Tell
me I did not.”
“You did not.”
“There is this, too.” His hand was ceaseless now. “I know I have told yyou
of this.”
I closed myy eyyes. “Tell me again,” I said.
LATER, ACHILLES SLEEPS next to me. Odyysseus’ storm has come, and the
coarse fabric of the tent wall trembles with its force. I hear the stinging slap,
over and over, of waves reproaching the shore. He stirs and the air stirs with
him, bearing the musk-sweet smell of his bodyy. I think: This is what I will
miss. I think: I will kill myself rather than miss it. I think: How long do we
have?
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