the-song-books.yossr

Sometimes on those dayys her hand would accidentallyy brush mine, and
she would look up and smile, water drops hanging from her ears and hair
like pearls. Her long skirt was tied practicallyy around her knees, revealing
feet that were sturdyy and sure.
One of these dayys we had stopped for lunch. We feasted on clothwrapped
bread and cheese, strips of dried meat, and water scooped with our
hands from the stream. It was spring, and we were surrounded byy the
profusion of Anatolian fertilityy. For three weeks the earth would paint
herself in everyy color, burst everyy bud, unfurl each rioting petal. Then, the
wild flush of her excitement spent, she would settle down to the steadyy
work of summer. It was myy favorite time of yyear.
I should have seen it coming. Perhaps yyou will think me stupid that I did
not. I was telling her a storyy—something about Chiron, I think—and she
was listening, her eyyes dark like the earth on which we sat. I finished, and
she was quiet. This was nothing unusual; she was often quiet. We were
sitting close to each other, heads together as if in conspiracyy. I could smell
the fruit she had eaten; I could smell the rose oils she pressed for the other
girls, still staining her fingers. She was so dear to me, I thought. Her serious
face and clever eyyes. I imagined her as a girl, scraped with tree-climbing,
skinnyy limbs flyying as she ran. I wished that I had known her then, that she
had been with me at myy father’s house, had skipped stones with myy mother.
Almost, I could imagine her there, hovering just at the edge of myy
remembrance.
Her lips touched mine. I was so surprised I did not move. Her mouth was
soft and a little hesitant. Her eyyes were sweetlyy closed. Of habit, of its own
accord, myy mouth parted. A moment passed like this, the ground beneath
us, the breeze sifting flower scents. Then she drew back, eyyes down,
waiting for judgment. Myy pulse sounded in myy ears, but it was not as
Achilles made it sound. It was something more like surprise, and fear that I
would hurt her. I put myy hand to hers.
She knew, then. She felt it in the wayy I took her hand, the wayy myy gaze
rested on her. “I’m sorryy,” she whispered.
I shook myy head, but could not think of what more to sayy.
Her shoulders crept up, like folded wings. “I know that yyou love him,”
she said, hesitating a little before each word. “I know. But I thought that—
some men have wives and lovers both.”
https://books.yossr.com/en