the-song-books.yossr

“When I sayy, throw one to me.”
Normallyy I would chafe at being bossed this wayy. But somehow the
words did not sound like commands in his mouth. He began to juggle the
remaining balls. “Now,” he said. I let the ball flyy from myy hand towards
him, saw it pulled seamlesslyy into the circling blur.
“Again,” he said. I threw another ball, and it joined the others.
“You do that well,” he said.
I looked up, quicklyy. Was he mocking me? But his face was sincere.
“Catch.” A ball came back to me, just like the fig at dinner.
Myy part took no great skill, but I enjoyyed it anyywayy. We found ourselves
smiling at the satisfaction of each smooth catch and throw.
After some time he stopped, yyawned. “It’s late,” he said. I was surprised
to see the moon high outside the window; I had not noticed the minutes
passing.
I sat on the pallet and watched as he busied himself with the tasks of bed,
washing his face with water from a wide-mouthed ewer, untyying the bit of
leather that bound his hair. The silence brought myy uneasiness back. Why
was I here?
Achilles snuffed out the torch.
“Good night,” he said. “Good night.” The word felt strange in myy mouth,
like another language.
Time passed. In the moonlight, I could just make out the shape of his
face, sculptor-perfect, across the room. His lips were parted slightlyy, an arm
thrown carelesslyy above his head. He looked different in sleep, beautiful but
cold as moonlight. I found myyself wishing he would wake so that I might
watch the life return.
THE NEXT MORNING, after breakfast, I went back to the boyys’ room,
expecting to find myy things returned. Theyy were not, and I saw that myy bed
had been stripped of its linens. I checked again after lunch, and after spear
practice and then again before bed, but myy old place remained emptyy and
unmade. So. Still. Warilyy, I made myy wayy to his room, half-expecting a
servant to stop me. None did.
In the doorwayy of his room, I hesitated. He was within, lounging as I had
seen him that first dayy, one leg dangling.
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