DEIMOS
Heave the silver hollow sliver
“Only if you want to be,” he intoned, snickering, never forcing, never demanding, never commanding, not to her – if she yearned to partake in the wine, it was available. He rose to grab ahold of it himself and hastened to pour it into his glass, slipping it back along the middle of the table, an arm’s length, her choice, her option and alternative. After a few cuts with his knife, always precise, lines of lacerations orchestrated and demonstrated without fault, and portions of the pie swallowed, savored, he did the same with the wine, consuming, waiting, a brow arched in the tranquility. Thereafter, he simply enjoyed the scarce, freeing moments, uncertain of what to do to in their midst, so infrequent, so minute, chasing away oblivion for an evening, lost in the throngs of stories. Then he watched her over the rim of his glass, bringing it to his lips again, as she began her tale. He hid the smaller parts of his amusement behind the wine, but only for so long, placing the ware back down, grabbing his fork, chewing thoughtfully on delicious food, immersed in the dramatics and theatrics of the blackberry battle. His attention was solely for her, admiring, revered, the riveting contortions of his gaze segmented on gilded threads and onyx indications, muffled chuckles broken apart by maneuvering jaws. “Nearly thwarted by berries,” he whispered, as if he were disappointed she’d almost been outdone by thorns and nettles, expected her to conquer their upheavals and arrangements. He shook his head, the wet mane striking down over his bare shoulders, remembering the stains across her cheek, then his stare focused on her scratches, on the newfound scars and blemishes. Snorting, he reached across to take her hand and wholly inspect, a farce, a play, devilish and amused. “Lucky these did not have to be amputated.” He lifted it to his lips, pressed his mouth to the few remaining marks, breathed laughter across the bridge of knuckles and dulcet skin. “I am glad you survived.”
Then he set her free, leaning back in his chair, the wine making him restless and relaxed all at the same time; brow furrowing as he strived to fill in the gaps, to laden a tale or two. Nothing monumental (besides death throngs and knells, besides open graves and catacombs, besides loss) came to mind – but maybe, if she asked, he’d grant her some random accord.
Unite and spread the heart apart
