The morning greeted so gently, giving experience and prowess a great big stir before pouring it back into him. His weekly burdens had come and left, the family too. This day were his, could well’ve been named for him, he thought, looking to his beloved hound. “Today, we’re beholden to none, dear Javier!” And Will stretched, fancying the day ahead too’d be stretched like sticky dough, each mental to-do fitting on a strand like nuts and seeds before being kneaded in with the nightfall. These days one had to feel the social concerns and drudgery of the times were enough to make a disobedient dog of the mind—he were bent—and occasionally leashes called for a tug as to not step over the present, an occasional pause as to be in the body, closing one’s eyes as to be re-engaged with life. And Will thought, what a morning—so balmy and even, so lightly it caressed his skin, the freedom it gave him to wander practically nude in a top so sheer its fabric were barely borne and dainty terry shorts inspiring a fair prance to his step. And Will thought, the sky is out, why so shouldn’t his thighs also be! His back and knees griped, tired muscle tendons sighed, crying and cracking as they would. Leaning against the counter until the cat nuzzled his legs… he stood and winced and ran a thumb across his peck, stood with pride in the body’s acknowledgement of a week so laborious as this. As he tended the animals and his coffee brewed, he, too, acknowledged an ache different altogether. Something strange pressing on him, feeling as he did, standing in the kitchen filled with the aroma of an absurdly dark roast, that something unpleasant were looming; his heart being so held in a cage, the cold bars, fashioned both of regret and worry; making a charade of his simple rhythm, wearying his poor, old mind. His pulse faltering and hesitated and hastened. Were it Her? Need he remind himself their date wa'n't until nightfall? If he were to win Her over it wouldn’t be till then. And his worries? They were for not. At least not for the present.

Last they spoke, She confessed Her doubts, admitting She wa'n't sure they got along even. Her words pierced him like a spear, a big girthy spear, but he knew She were perhaps right, but also perhaps She were not. Both were misunderstood something awful in their lives—deeply misunderstood—misunderstood by those whose understanding mattered most; those nearest never quite found their footing around them, so lost in their addle, simply at a loss as to how to interact or respond, and grew altogether apprehensive. Connecting? Pfft! Barely a flicker! It were more'n likely the two misunderstood souls, each feeling misunderstood by the other, only could worsen their struggle o’n’t being grasped properly — that dance of two minds misunderstood, perhaps misconstrued as trouble jibing? Could’ve been simpler even still. Could be She just couldn’t trust him, really. Yet, he found himself the most inclined to while away the hours in Her company, however difficult She made him feel at times; the light in his chest shone biggest and brightest when She were close. If ever he made Her feel the same— well, what more to it could there be? The understanding and trust he were positive they would come.

These days a woman could fend for themselves, by his reckoning (and Hers), the scales had tipped entirely out of balance, the women conferring all the favors and giving (but that were other men, vile, cads mostly, he could be better). He were devoted and would care for Her the ways a man should. Sacrifice on the behaves of the both of them. A certain amount of bricks need carrying in a day, and he’d take as many off Her back as he could, ‘specially late at night, when the bricks felt anchored down, when he’d be practically bound to the settee; he’d show Her, during those hours ‘well as their hours of need—when fortunes waned—he’d show Her his mid-section were mighty fit for hoisting, his shoulders sturdy enough to assume their bricks.

He laughed, thinking’a the ways She obliterated all the narratives he laid claim to (like he were playing with house money since his divorce). He’d missed those enriching elements of family life, for certain, yet assured himself he’d keep his skin only partially in the game of wooing and paying court, seeing as he appreciated the freedom being alone afforded him too. Why, at his age, he’d thought, who had the fettle anyway? Yet, in his courtship with Her, it seemed he’d more’n likely need to proffer all his skin or detach himself somewhat from those fleshly concerns; he were sure to go skinless, at times, grow some back and more'n likely part with it too. But would he ever be allowed the comfort of his skin or would he ceaselessly be without portions? This were no ordinary las, and Will wondered, would She ever let him in really?

—

He'd been setting aside his savings for an umbrella, a thing to keep him cool in the latter summer months, something fashioned of a thing like bamboo, or something sturdy yet withal of beauty of form. Something with tassels. Certainly no metal. He’d hardly a need for an umbrella beside his favorite chair most hours a day, seeing the olive trees defused the sun with their narrow leaves; letting barely a dapple through, just enough, just a touch for him to be tepid, not scorched, eyesight kept right. Yet an umbrella would temper the off hours, serving a bridge between the shifting shadows of the olive tree and those cast by the house. He’d make good use of it then. The dog were less keen altogether on any dashes or touches or bits of sun in this heat, laid on the stoop beneath the awning, his head on his paws; the cat off in the brush, somewhere, or under one of the houses, somewhere, gathering dust in his fur as he would.

For it were July. The tail of it anyway, a good portion of the greenery scalded by the heat, the flowers broadly folded in or laid about burned up like all those deceased, struck down in brimstone for their wickedness (he watered the vegetation most days at sunfall). Then there were today, the heatwave tolerable overall—an opportunity as good as any! All the peaches that’d sell were harvested, his yields plentiful enough; the toil were over apart from some prepping and things, over for most this time o’ month, aside from the dairy and livestock folks and those with specialties and greenhouses. An opportunity indeed!

Reclining deep in his chair, long, bare feet perched on the lip, Will’s stare rose to the lofty crowns of trees, up to a sprawling bush that, he were positive, shared with him the same unhurried surge of sunup. And the sky; it sure seemed so clear, it might well’ve been a lone shade ‘o blue on a canvas behind the tree. A butterfly were up there too, the color of daffodil, oh were it lustrous against the clear, blue sky, Will thought, and remarkably large!—nearly a hummingbird size, larger perhaps. The butterfly were higher ‘an he’d seen, an altitude he hadn’t thought they reached. Up there so high, arriving at the butterfly mountaintop, touching the butterfly cosmos; it fell!—and bounced and made a loop up in the wind, way up there in the sky. Up there—the tree, in concert with the butterfly, undulated this way and that with the wind, the leaves billowing like ripples on silk; the leaves and tree tops lifting from him all desire and concern—pushing ‘em far off, endowing Will instead with their own plentitude, their gift, fruits of having stood a millennia, outliving their own ambition, never in all that time losing their affection for the dear wind. And the shackles clutching Will’s heart opened allowing the space to swell and beat gayly; and, in a trice, the gracious wind were back to fill the sheets of leaves like a pair of lungs. Will, too, drew it in, expanding his own; as the breeze brushed his legs, and the sun flickered through the olive tree leaves; he felt all that were outside him—the trees and the yellow butterfly, the wind, and the birds soaring way up over them, the sweet singing of others—inside him too.

In the space of a breath, the wind stilled and the moment drifted past, a reminder to Will that no feeling were final. He grabbed the book he’d left next to his chair and opened to the page marked by a dried trumpet flower. It wa'n't his nature to be happy, if any emotion were fixed in him it were worry but he wished to be resilient and glad as the trees; sitting there, feeling grounded as he’d had, Will could scarce lay his pen to more passages on the pages he read, each better than the last, each bracketed and underlined more. He took a nice sip of brew, notes of blackberry unfurling across the back of his tongue, and thought, "I'm rich!”(or high)—Will were positive, feeling a rush, surely this sensory bath were the pith of wealth and accomplishment, of love fulfilled. And he envisioned Her sitting in a chair all Hers, or perhaps in his, beneath the dappled shade of the olive tree, a mug of that very coffee in Her lap. He’d approached from Her backside, enfolding Her in his embrace. The phosphenes behind his closed eyelids swelling and pulsing with the thrum of their hearts. He’d wish for Her joy, silently pleading, 'may You find happiness. May You be spared suffering, save for that needful to grow and create as You do.' When he released, She’d turn and he’d meet Her lips and he’d smile, considering Her bricks and the ways to lift them from Her as the trees had for him. There’d be misunderstandings, yes, all the time; yet if there were ever one he’d stand in accord with, it were Her.

He envisioned a son of theirs too, frolicking about the courtyard—shirtless and sunkissed as a pair of old leather boots. He pictured the many ways he’d engage in games of ball with the boy, offering guidance and support, and bestowing upon him the warmth and affection he'd lacked of his own father. All the colours of Her eyes in his, the very best parts of Her coursing through him, the same pulsing and swelling when they embraced.

PART 2

Will’s shaving soap, housed in a fine maple box—a gift from the former missus, as beautiful a gift as he’d received ever—gave off a rosy fragrance, the bright scent blooming in the air like a fresh spring garden as Will swept his brush across the soap’s surface. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, turning his head this way and that; it’d been a time since the last, proper once-over. His beard were full and long, and white too like a Spanish moss. He’d worn his hair short and liked the contrast of a bigger beard, the way each side evenly weaved into it. He drew his lips tight, and with each stroke of the brush the lather embraced his neck; the warm bristles working the foam into a tight mousse; the nostalgia of it all billowed around him, with the steam and floral fragrance, until his resolve were broken—he cried, and laughs shared with his wife in the bathroom flickered in the mirror, memories of a home full with love. He had to remind himself it were most often filled with other things like weary sighs and sharp words. There’s no use, he reminded himself, going on bound to love, going on wounding and forgiving, going on with contempt clinging like a stubborn stain. It were break apart or risk seeing their individual promise—the kick of excitement she got from a little thing like a carrot she grew, a seashell, nearly any flower; or the little regard he paid to the faults in those around him—the best of them lost to sarcastic scoffing and contemptuousness. “It will be filled with love again,” he reassured himself, dabbing olive oil under his puffy eyes; his crow's feet had become more talon, a testament to a smile so broad it raised his whole face to a big rumple. And with such a lather and a steam, his knife glided easily, so easily he scarce felt it pare away the stubble. He clenched his jaw to inspect; smiled to affirm he were still comely. Will’d aged, but aged well, he were positive—as a young man, he’d so wanted a face worth regard, and certainly it were, worthy of such regard now. And for a moment he wore a look of pride, noticing himself under the flattering burn of a few Edison bulbs mounted besides the mirror while the water ran and his neck fizzed. Yes, the grizzle, the bit of ruggedness years gave his fresh face were a winning pair. His body, too, he mustn’t forget, were still fit and well tuned, to that day hadn’t let him down. Though, when Will walked or danced, his legs bent outwards as though a small horse were wedged between them; a price of having spent years hefting contraptions he’d cobbled together: watermills, threshing rigs, plows and such; always fixing’ or building or drawing a thing; and tightened and untightened enough bolts so his knuckles and wrists still were swollen near double.

At once, he were terribly glum—were there a thing to love even about a man with no inspiration left? —Will suddenly remembered the specter of his humiliation (it did always linger around in him somewhere, never leaving fully, ever); sure couldn’t find an ounce of it within himself to offer to his own heart. Had there been a better way?—different ways, with different outcomes? He leaned on the porcelain sink, eyeing the scuffs etched in the second-rate drain stopper, its thin coating of metal barely concealing the junk beneath. If he could reclaim his past, he thought, oh, not a step would’ve taken the same course. He’d have done a thing that were his only, for starters, that no one could take or taint. How much he wished—that he’d been a penniless writer.

As an engineer—a trade tough enough and so fraught with corruption it’d brought low many a men of sturdier constitution than Will’s—he learned early he wa’n’t fit for the affair, wa’n’t the sort to produce shoddy work, making something inefficient or impure for a few extra clams, not him, denying a thing its potential?—he’d sooner languish in bed and let death claim him. Or rather, the only thing felt good at all in a line like that—in a life like this—felt right or true, were doing right by it; a tricky thing when those entrusted to keep the course were having their palms greased for each corner cut. Better to kowtow to them, were what he’d thought, bend a knee, even, so he needn't bend on matters of quality or progressing the mechanics. He wa’n’t chasing change for its own sake, made certain it wa’n’t that, nor felt superior, nor lacked humility, (why, he’d known the bite of self-doubt often enough to stagger a horse)—he merely held to his sense of taste; felt there were those who knew how a thing ought to be—with the innovative vision to bring that understanding into functional reality—and there were those’d only rail against it, frightened of losing a grasp of authority they wielded, wary of anything that unsettled familiar things, or worse!—just too lily-livered. Over a decade in, he thought he had it figured; being well-accustomed to working under foot of all kinds of men, full of all kinds of self-centered ways, having found vehicles for asserting his own self-mastery everywhere it didn't have him scolded, ensuring the pride of fragile men didn’t hinder the work by setting aside his own; safeguarding, always, his belief every mechanism or apparatus be true to its purpose, safeguarding too his follow laborers, genuine craftsmen all of them. Will saw to it they all followed orders good, took the blame when they didn’t, and assured himself he, his chaps, and the men they’d worked for had an unspoken understanding…collectively they practiced futility and still produced the most dependable work around. Everyone won!—until those men, all it took really were two or three, grew resentful of the onus he’d took, viewing it an imposition rather’an a virtue. If he were so keen on taking the fall for others, they reckoned, they’d see to it he fell good and well.

The infinite intellectual landscape Will cultivated that morning had been reduced to a stifling circle—he shuddered—the unholy mugs of those men barged into his thoughts, and a tension raced through him so sharply it pulled him upright. “That’s quite enough!”—his voice fought through the knots in his throat. “Enough!”—he cranked off the faucet and looked himself square in the eyes, insisting on the pity owed to him. Why, whose side were this chap peering back on anyhow?—we’d been kicked enough while standing, there were no cause to kick ourselves, too, now we’re brought low. On looking back, Will could hardly breathe, thinking of the ways those men took to undermining his confidence and credibility—the way the most wretched of those men, deliberately picking out Will’s protege and best lad, had burped up acid from his stomach, as he would, and grumbled, “send David to San Dimas, Anthony to Raceda. Keep whichever one functions. Turn the other out." Long past the tiff, Will's mind were still throwing punches. The horror when that cretin told him his men were gilded beyond merit, that Will’d made a devil of him forcing him to let men go like this— as if anyone could put the devil in another person. He’d burped, tugging his shirt down to cover his overhanging potbelly, and droned on that he couldn’t afford a moral conscience like Will—as if the size of one’s purse had a thing to do with it.
“And, Will,” the bastard sneered as Will turned, “whoever you keep will answer to me.”
Will never did break character, though!—he deserved credit for that—never once showed them emotion or ego of any sort. He became much too isolated, though, and weary, eventually much too disheartened and, unable to uphold his standards, left it behind him. His reputation took enough stepping on so he were out for good; resigned to the quiet of his orchards, his own machines and projects, where his growth seemed to vanish along with the manic notion—fueled in him the need to create—that ingenuity were no less vital than any’a his organs were. He never did come to terms with it, being exiled that way. For good or for bad; Will of course knew for bad, all he had were sunk in that work. Time thinned his existence, wore it to a thread—and by now, a mere hair couldn’t be expected to hold the possibility of reinventing oneself fully.

Like a toddler, Will stomped off (heels-first!) down the long, wood-paneled hallway, a deep-seated disdain for himself not far off, caught between the folly of falling into a damn pit and the lack of mettle to dig himself from it. He tried denying it, but knew, and felt, lingering in front of the wardrobe, the whole color of him had changed; in truth felt himself wither in an instant—old, drained, emasculated, identityless. The day’s vibrancy and energy swirled just beyond him; a betrayal it were, of both head and heart—the holy trinity he once completed—each fending for themselves as he pleaded to join arms. Why does one do it? He thought. Am I completely mad? Why use the good shaving soap? Why in the world would I, of all people, go on a date even? —or court any further rejection again, ever? He’d seen his ex remarry, had seen what courtship had to offer a las. The very best of women deserved the most energetic of men; a man with the financial means to put forth decadent things, with the will to make each day new and fun; there were men with far-reaching social circles, men who were invited to events and extended invitations themselves. What did he have?—Will looked to his wardrobe, her side still empty, his shirts still pushed to the other. He did have a fine tailor, and fine shirts made with fine silks, he thought, wa’n’t a tailor but his could work with silk, certainly no other man could dress quite like he did—nor had the savvy to. That, he had.

—

The walls of the ballroom were dressed in burgundy velvet, the fabric cascading in folds that overlapped, same as the pleats of an opera curtain—heavy and powerful, swallowing sound, absorbing the room’s hum and letting it out again, softened. The dance floor was sprawling, yet the lighting—golden and faint—pooled more than it spread, the crowd gathered at the center and their laughter and humming pulled the space inward, along with the burgundy drapes wrapping the walls like a mother’s blanket that drew everything into the refuge of her bosom. They ordered Sangarees at the bar and clanked them together. “You look handsome” She told him, and for a moment his heart sang. “You look so very much like another sad Sycilian friend of mine, from just south of here,” She told him and his heart sank. Why would She say this to him? She couldn’t lift him without toppling him, it seemed—knowing how badly he longed to be let in, She took even greater care to keep him out. He smiled—releasing the urge to begin the night with such weight. Don’t be absurd! Enjoy Her instead. Don’t be impossible. Don’t demand what She hasn’t to give.

As he led Her to the dance floor, She took his arm and he were positive nothing could draw out the light in him like Her simplest acts of affection. A photographer stepped forward with a deferential nod, politely interrupting to capture the pair. She’s amazing, Will mused, as they leaned toward one another, offering a smile as the flashbulb burst. Her fragrance—were it copal resin or mesquite? Something wild, strong, tender too, like Her. And tuberose—yes, something delicate. She smelled rich (though She were far from rich)—this scent, which he suspected She made herself, such were Her way with things, hung in the air; a breath in and he’d been gripped in a heady rush, blurring his vision—had he fainted?—and when the fleeting daze set like the moon, his mood soared, sharp and bright. Could She see it gleaming through his eyes?—(She must’ve). He’d felt it warm beneath his skin, glowing. He were terrified, or maybe exhilarated, Will wa’n’t sure which; were there a difference even? A splash of her drink slipped over the rim as he spun her on the dance floor, and she took a quick sip, ready to spin again; threw a hand on Will’s shoulder and pulled him in, laughed and pushed him off. The music and the liquor moved through her; kicks of the bass drum sent ripples through her body like sonar through water, the pulses bouncing off craggy objects like her knees and ribs. She bounced lightly and her smile spread easily; the high-hats lifted her shoulders and when the snare snapped so did her wrists. The music guided her, showing her when to sway, when to spin. She fell into his arms, and his gaze held Her. “I will come to you,” she said and he asked what She meant. “If I want to be affectionate,” she said in his ear, “if we’re to be affectionate, let me come to you.” His eyes looked hurt, more so than usual, so she pulled him in tight and let him caress her. So much had changed that he hadn’t known. Did he know how much she had to brace herself now for touch she didn’t want (which was nearly all touch)? Of course not. He hadn’t the slightest inkling what she’d done for him already—how, knowing the shift it caused in him, how he moved from intense to gay if she’d allowed him to touch her, and so she’d allowed him. “When I envision holding You,” he said, looking at Her so sharply and eagerly it made Her uneasy. “I see the light in our chests growing so big and bright. I know if Your lips touched mine I’d feel it everywhere…even in my ankles.” She scowled and pulled away. “What’s wrong?” he asked, “that’s how I feel.”
“How do you know that’s going on in my chest?” she scolded him for assuming. “Am I part of this feeling? It seems I don’t need to be there at all. You don’t even need me to entertain these feelings of yours!”
He tried reassuring Her, reaching for the back of Her arm. He just wanted to be sweet, make Her feel good, cared for. She pursed her lips and pulled away her arm. All that was needed here was his own gratification—she was sure of it. He wasn’t curious about her experience, her account of things, what she feels or wants, how and at what pace she’d like to move.
“You don’t have feelings for me?” He asked
“I didn’t even get the chance to before you decided for us both!”
“That’s not true,” he murmured, his tone barely masking a restrained edge.
“It’s true!”
Being idealized infuriated her; a person was too complex to be reduced to a mere idea in someone else’s mind.
She looked at him with daggers in her eyes and he looked back with defeat in his; and in his eyes she saw his divorce, how his former missus had remarried—wealthy, no less—and how the scoundrels around town had taken his work and good name. Watching him topple before her wasn’t something she had in her and so she let the matter rest, her gaze softening as she stepped in to lift him—just as she had with so many men before, placing their fragile pride above her own expectations. “Why don’t you grab us another drink and we can go sit.”

No, this wouldn’t do, She thought, taking a seat on a bench against the velvet wall. She was enjoying herself, enjoying him, too! What had he done? It had been a fleeting instance where the world seemed kindly, you’re welcome here!—in this faintly lit room, the world had told her. The air carried the invitation: don’t merely hear the music. feel it, join the music; become the music yourself!—the world had told her. Will had seen it, too, she was positive, seen the way the music lifted her from the ground, how the room swirled and carried her up; and rather than reach for her or let himself be swept up as well, he’d pulled her back. His ego clamored so noisily to be known, hadn’t it?—demanded it so; demanded returns. Love!—was a thing he had the nerve to speak of and still had anchored her down like he did!—all the while admitting he couldn’t rise from the ground himself without her strength to bear him upward. In his grasp, she heard it plainly: he could not spark his own light, he'd need her to. That wasn’t love!
He was so clearly coveting pity, too, and she couldn’t give it to him (she’d had to part ways with the version of herself willing to wear a mask and costume for anyone). Pity? Whatever for? For getting sunk by his own choices? For being unable to pull himself from the rut he’d settled into? She wasn’t entirely unfeeling or without sympathy for him. But pity? There were others far more deserving—like those with infirmities, who’d never receive the opportunities he’d squandered and might reclaim if he was to make the effort—like women, for instance, held back and abused, forced to acquiesce to foolish men, and coddle their silly egos. “Ick!”—she recoiled, bringing back the dolor in Will’s eyes. In many ways this very woe—defying wicked men and paying the price—was the wellspring of the pity he sought, she could appreciate that, yet like a cat it raised her back when he lobbied for it (or any grievance, really), with all his undeniable privilege—it left her simply wary, or, in other words, revealed a rather massive limitation in him; another man too wrapped in his own self-centeredness to see he wasn’t the only one in the conversation (and, really, was he any better than those heinous men he’d worked for?— was any man? Proper brutes, all of them, yeah, the whole lot, and yet each, somehow, thought himself the ‘good’ one). Others suffered too!—She insisted. He’d every right to grievance, Will had indeed fallen, yet the fall of others got so much more severe, came from greater heights and hit higher speeds, crashed down with more catastrophic force. And the other fallen (herself among them) had the courage to rise with grace. Such experiences were shared by all of us, she thought. Why, look at this young girl out there with the flared skirt, calling out the next dance steps to her girl friends between breathless laughter—she’d no doubt lost her father, if not to a divorce than to the war, a husband too, more than likely. The Will she met years ago was ridiculous and uncourtly, but sexy—full of self-efficacy. This Will was now emotionally mature and sensitive, he cared for her deeply and she could feel it, but was equally uncourtly now. Why, he was just sitting in a dirty diaper! Wasn’t he? No one had the right. No. Certainly no man. Was she to save him? Why, she needed saving herself!

This man behind the bar, how about him?—in his bowtie and crisply pressed shirt, stirring drinks for Will with a long silver spoon; were we to believe he never wondered about his purpose beyond the polished glasses and steady hum of conversation? The clink of ice in the shaker never stirred a thing deeper within him? He hadn’t suffered loss like Will, who were the sole proprietor of it, no!—of course he hadn’t, just accepted his place in the world the bar-boy did, the constant routine of serving others, without a flicker of doubt. Nonsense! It was a sort of pattern she couldn’t unsee (and she spotted a pattern good as any), a pattern of sensationalizing his own struggles, and trivializing others’—without realizing it. A blindspot, even; Will, sweet as he was, couldn’t seem to comprehend others deal with things he never did—and that to recognize those things didn’t lessen what he goes through.

Will returned with two drinks and two sad eyes, “perhaps I allowed my notions of You, of us, to run ahead of reality,” he said, “I value You and wouldn’t want to lose You as my friend.”— and, accepting the drink, she, meanwhile, turned sharply attuned to the prospect of being touched by him. “I don’t believe a friendship makes sense for this version of me and this version of you,” she said gently as she could. “The tension is there for a reason.”—then watched the sadness in his eyes transform, not into more grief but to the hollow calm of someone who’d lost before, whose eyes glazed over, ready to live a new truth. “I care for You deeply,” he said simply, the words not begging for anything in return. “I mean it when I say that I’d run through a wall for You.” And she believed he would, too, but Will didn’t understand.
“You don’t understand,” she told him. “I fought my fight. You don’t know how hard I fought to bring myself back from grief that almost swallowed me…I’m still doing so.”—he were reminded She’d suffered the loss of a birth, the greatest loss of all; and it wa’n’t just Her personal loss, even; it were one that touched the fabric of the world. Another person to walk with Her qualities, guided by Her, the legacy of Her experience and rare way of seeing the world would be a person who’d have altered the course of everything. And this wa'n’t the profound loss She was referring to, even; the one that rewired Her, the reason She often pointed to for why She could no longer be the person She once was—the version who could do things this version could not. This loss She spoke of was an exhaustion She'd once described to him as total—physically, certainly, and mentally, and emotionally too. He understood that much, though She never fully shared the experience with him. "You knew the woman I was and you know me now and that's all you need to know," She'd say. There were things, certain parts of Her pain, She kept to Herself, things She didn’t trust him with, even if he wanted to understand. He saw it clearly now, raw and certain—She'd suffered, more deeply than he, and yet he'd let her turn the mirror toward him, to his wounds, his aching self. Ah, what a bungler I am!—Will thought. Had he been curious?—yes, but shallow in it, content to take Her measured composure as proof She were getting by. It suited him to think Her strong, resilient, when he'd known being strong hurts. Had Will fostered the warm shelter, the refuge She hadn’t given Herself permission to seek in another, Her burdens might've unknotted themselves into words. How would he, so certain of his noble intentions, ever hope to lift the bricks from Her when he hadn't thought to ask what they were made of, even?

“Your emptiness is yours to fill,” she told him, “the most dangerous sort is a man without self-love. You’ll search for validation everywhere—your work and friends, in your lovers—everywhere except within yourself. And, I'm afraid, you’d be a constant labor for me—one that would no doubt be in vain.” She could see he’d heard her and listened too. Rather than reacting hastily, he’d looked deeply in her eyes and waited for what she had to say next. From this moment on, Will would likely devote himself to learning self-love until he found it. She believed he’d find it, too! And he’d get there faster if she helped him, though she wouldn’t help him. Of course a man would benefit from our feminine energy, she thought, they’ve harvested it from us since always!—but, she did not seek to immerse herself in masculinity, nor did she wish it imposed upon her. Why should she? Why? When in the world would she need a person to run through a wall for her? This would only benefit him, she was positive now. And he realized he’d made a grave error. Rather’n trying to win Her hand, he’d needed to win Her trust. Trust that were now broken—for good it seemed. “Let me get You home,” he said, taking Her drink and setting it beside Her.

She stared out the window as they drove, and he knew She’d already settled into a life he no longer belonged to, so he thought of love. He’d been crazy in love for near a decade and didn’t want a love that were crazy for himself again. The love he wanted for himself were one of calmness and understanding; not tension as She’d said. For all his striving, he'd never redeem the wretchedness of men, nor the cruelty they'd inflicted on Her, even. It were evident, as She'd condemned him for failing to confront the demons in his life, that his struggles struck too close to Her own. In Her words lingered a subtle allusion, a shadow of Her own unresolved struggle—a storm he were still in the eye of and that She' perhaps'd moved further along but hadn't left behind fully. Their pains were their own—separate and untransferable. Just as She couldn't take responsibility for his demons, neither could he claim ownership of hers, or take it personally as they colored Her opinion of him. But, truly, it were staggering how swiftly everything'd turned; and Will still grasped at the edges of his disbelief as though holding the idea it wa'n’t real might stop it from being so. Their demons wouldn’t haunt them forever, he'd held; perhaps they were weighed differently today, and one day—they'd find balance. Or perhaps their moons weren’t aligned and wouldn’t be in this lifetime or any other, and perhaps they would. It could be they each hailed from a universe that couldn't intersect with the others’ and he’d always cause an adverse reaction in Her; and it could be a wormhole would open that reversed the natural order which made them incompatible. And, it could be She’d push him away still.

an attempt to pay homage to the great Virginia Wolf