The morning greeted gently. His weekly burdens had come and left, the family too. This day was his, could well have 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. The social concerns and drudgery of the times had been enough to make a disobedient dog of his mind—Will was bent—and the leash called for a tug to stay in the present, a pause so he might inhabit the body, closing one's eyes to re-enter 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 was hardly felt 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 laborious week. 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 was looming; his heart being so held in a cage, the cold bars making a charade of his simple rhythm, wearying his poor, old mind. His pulse went strange on him. Was it Her? Need he remind himself their date wasn't until nightfall? If he were to win Her over it wouldn’t be till then. And his worries? They were for naught. At least not for the present.

But was it really—nothing? Couldn't be. Last they spoke, She confessed Her doubts; wasn't sure they got along, even. The words fell on him like a slab of ceiling tile, and merely hung for Her like a loose hair; yes, perhaps they'd simply continue colliding…so be it, Her shrug had said. Will sat down with his coffee, pierced again by her words. She was perhaps right. Perhaps She wasn't. For women are on higher guard than men are, he thought. They had signals to read—a woman was always assessing desire and vigilance, attraction and harm. She'd never got on with Her father, he thought, and learned distrust young. Dammit all—they’d both been misunderstood something awful in their lives hadn't they? Deeply misunderstood, as far as he saw; misunderstood by those whose understanding mattered most; those nearest never did find their footing around them, so lost in their addle—simply at a loss as to how they should be handled—grew altogether apprehensive. Connecting? Ah, there was barely a flicker! It was more than likely the two misunderstood souls, each feeling misunderstood by the other, only could worsen the struggle of being seen properly—that dance of two minds misunderstood, perhaps misconstrued as trouble jibing? Could've been simpler even still, he supposed. Could be She just couldn't trust him, really. Ah, worrying was for naught, he decided, tracing the rim of his mug; for he found himself most inclined to while away the hours in Her company; the light in his chest shone biggest and brightest when She was close. And if ever he made Her feel the same—well, what more to it could there be? The understanding and trust would come, he was positive.

Will stood—the chair gliding back on its felt pads—and the dog darted past, down the back stair before he'd even reached the doorway. The orchard air touched him as he stepped out, the morning carrying the sweet scent of peach skins and loam pressed hard by the sun; and the thought followed him—modest, pressing—that he might do better. These days a woman could fend for herself, and by his reckoning (and Hers), the scales had tipped entirely, the women conferring all the favors and giving. He thought of what made a man decent, of his devotion to Her; he'd care for Her the ways a man should (not like the others, vile, cads mostly), would sacrifice on both their behalves. A certain amount of bricks need carrying in a day, and he’d take as many from Her back as he could. Especially late at night, when the bricks felt anchored down—during those hours and their hours of need, when fortunes waned—he'd show Her his mid-section was mighty fit for hoisting and his shoulders were sturdy enough to assume their bricks.

He wasn't just quick to fend off accusations like the one She'd thrown about them getting along, being defensive was a reflex now; what a contemptible posture! Mulling over what should have been said, preparing lines for the next time—he all but summoned more quarrels. And she'd undressed him all the same when he'd attempted to role-play their talks—worse, even. Recollecting how she'd bested him again and again, putting him to shame in their repartee, his throat thought better of swallowing; why even bother, then? But She could do that; strip him of his tactics; and what was a man to do against such a thing, someone who left him without natural defenses? The way She saw through him left him nothing but the truth and the hope She might believe it.

He laughed, thinking of the ways She obliterated the narratives he'd claimed to. Since his divorce, he'd told himself he was playing with house money—wooing and paying court cost him nothing, the freedom of being alone suited Will fine. Why, at his age, who had the fettle to put skin in the game anyway? And yet with Her, it seemed he'd need to proffer all his skin or detach himself from those fleshly concerns; he was sure to go skinless, grow some back, and more than likely part with it too. And even then wasn't sure She’d 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 diffused 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, he thought. The dog was 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 was 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 was today, the heatwave tolerable overall. An opportunity as good as any, Will thought—all the peaches that'd sell were harvested, his yields plentiful enough; the toil was over apart from some prepping and things, over for most this time of 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 was positive, shared with him the same unhurried surge of sunup. And the sky; it sure seemed clear, it might well’ve been a lone shade of blue on a canvas behind the tree. A butterfly was up there too, the color of daffodil, oh was it lustrous against the clear, blue sky, Will thought, and remarkably large!—nearly a hummingbird size, larger perhaps. The butterfly was higher than 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 in the wind, the leaves billowing like ripples on silk. The leaves and tree tops lifted from him all desire and concern, endowing him instead with their plentitude—the gift of having stood a millennia, outliving ambition, never losing affection for the wind. Shackles clutching Will’s heart opened—Christ, they'd gripped him for ages now—allowing the space to swell and beat gayly. The wind returned, filling the sheets of leaves like a pair of lungs. Will drew it in too, expanding his chest. As the breeze brushed his legs and the sun flickered through the olive tree leaves, he felt all that was 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 was final. He grabbed a book left next to his chair and opened to the page marked by a dried trumpet flower. It wasn't his nature to be happy—if any emotion was fixed in him it was worry—but he wished to be resilient and glad as the trees. Sitting there, grounded as he'd felt all morning, grounded as he'd felt all year, 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). Surely—Will was positive, feeling a rush—this sensory bath was 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 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 was 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, 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 the boy, the same pulsing would swell behind Will’s eyelids 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 was 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 was 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 was 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 was 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 was still comely. Will’d aged, but aged well, he was positive. As a young man, he’d so wanted a face worth regard; certainly it was, now!—worthy of such regard. 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, was 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 was 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.

Then, at once, he was terribly glum—was there a thing to love even about a man with no inspiration left? —sure couldn’t find an ounce of it within himself to offer to his own heart. Will suddenly remembered the specter of his humiliation (it never left him fully, not ever, like the deep groan of stressed iron; sharp, jagged wails slipped out at being pulled against its limits). 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 was 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 wasn’t fit for the affair, wasn’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, was 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, was what he’d thought, bend a knee, even, so he needn't bend on matters of quality or progressing the mechanics. He wasn’t chasing change for its own sake, made certain it wasn’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 was two or three, grew resentful of the onus he’d took, viewing it an imposition rather than a virtue. If he was 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 was this chap peering back on anyhow?—we’d been kicked enough while standing, there was 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 was still throwing punches. The horror when that cretin told him his men were gilded beyond merit, that he’d made a devil of him, Will had; forcing his hand, 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 round overhanging belly, 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 was 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 was no less vital than 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 was 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 was, 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 lass. 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, wasn’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, and the crowd gathered in the center, their laughter and humming pulling the space inward, joining the burgundy drapes that wrapped the walls like a mother’s blanket drawing 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 tell him this? 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 was 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—was it copal resin or mesquite? Something wild, strong too, like Her. And tuberose—yes, delicate, unmistakable. She smelled rich (though She was far from rich)—this scent, which he suspected She made herself, such was 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? Wobbled, certainly—and when the fleeting daze cleared, he bounced on his toes. Could She see the light gleaming through his eyes?—She must’ve. He’d felt it warm beneath his skin, glowing. He was terrified, or maybe exhilarated, Will wasn’t sure which; was 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 (was his shirt raw silk?) and she 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, knowing 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 She seemed 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. The only thing 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. She hadn't it in her to watch him topple before 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 had been enjoying herself, enjoying him, too! What had Will 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 to have 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. I can think of nothing crueler, she thought, her fingertips going cold, as the room—which mere moments ago was alive and rich with texture—lost all dimension.

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! And she watched a young girl with a flared skirt calling out dance steps to her girl friends between breathless laughter. She couldn't help loving women—their faces as they danced, how they gave themselves over. A woman acknowledged the world is messy and stood up to meet it. This girl with her wonderful skirt flowing this way and that, no doubt lost her father, if not to a divorce then to the war, and still she moved through the night, carrying her friends as they carried her. This thing the girl had, that drew her in, whatever it was, would no doubt be consumed by a man, she thought. A man just like Will! There was a pattern with him she could no longer unsee (she could spot a pattern like no one else could)—a pattern of sensationalizing his own struggles while trivializing others', without realizing it. A blindspot, even. And what was a woman to do with it but grow resentful, but insist others had suffered too? In his eyes, and in his words when they spoke, he so clearly coveted pity, 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 were 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; 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, the whole lot of them, and yet each thought himself the 'good' one).

Across the room, a tall man in a bowtie and pressed shirt stood behind the bar, mixing Will's drinks. Will was blind to what stood there before him, she thought. Will, sweet as he was, couldn't comprehend others suffered as he did—and that acknowledging this didn't diminish what he went through. The man stirring his drinks with a long silver spoon never wondered about his purpose beyond the polished glasses and steady hum of conversation? Had Will believed that? The clink of ice in the shaker never stirred a thing deeper within him? No, this man couldn’t have suffered loss like Will, the sole proprietor of it—of course he hadn't, just accepted his place, the bar-boy did, the constant routine of serving others, without a flicker of doubt. Nonsense! Why, Will 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!

Will returned with two drinks and two sad eyes; pale green and earnest, she could be held by their sincerity—but no! She mustn't forget their sympathy-seeking—it again sprung her out of league with him—drove her lower teeth forward. “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 was reminded She’d suffered the loss of a birth, the greatest loss of all; and it wasn’t just Her personal loss, even; it was 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 wasn’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 a debility She'd once described to him as total—physically, of course, 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 was 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, words that revealed the cause of her collapse. 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, yet 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? It was clear to her this relationship would only benefit him. And he realized he’d made a grave error. Rather than trying to win Her hand, he’d needed to win Her trust. Trust that was 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 was crazy for himself again. The love he wanted for himself was 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. It was evident, as She'd condemned him for failing to confront the demons in his life, that his struggles struck too close to Her own—not in kind, but in their demands. He was still in the eye of the storm while She'd survived hers and crawled to uncertain ground. And She couldn't be expected to reach back into that wind without being torn apart again. 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—Ah, how he wished he’d tried to meet Her demons face-to-face, though, instead of accepting the walls She’d built around them; how badly he wanted to reach over, put a hand on her thigh. It shouldn't have ended like this. Truly, it was staggering how swiftly everything had turned; and Will still grasped at the edges of his disbelief as though holding the idea it wasn’t real might stop it from being so. He couldn’t help but think a game knee was granted the grace of time—time to mend, to rest, to bear no weight until ready; not rushed right back into service. And yet a soul in conflict with itself was afforded no such mercy. That’s where he was now, Will thought, his grip on the wheel stiffening with each second of silence, caught in the cruel rhythm of it; healing and surviving, surviving and healing. Confronted his demons he had, taming them he had not, but they wouldn’t haunt him forever, he'd held, nor would Hers. Perhaps the two of them 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 be. It could be their wounds were too alike, and he'd always stir what She needed to keep still; yet it could be time would heal what divided them. And, it could be, all the same, She'd push him away still.

An attempt to pay homage to the great Virginia Wolf and Katherine Ann Porter.