I cried on him. While naked. Then apparently, I fell asleep.
Oh man, I suck.
I look up at his face, and despite my wiggling, he’s still out. The scruff on his face has thickened even more overnight, and I have to resist the urge to drag my fingers across it. His chest rises and falls steadily with each breath, pressing his abdomen up against my breasts each time. His hand is positioned low on my back, fingers curling almost possessively around the curve of my bottom.
And for a brief moment, I think about shifting further on top of him. His erection is semi-hard, brushing against my leg, and it would be so easy to slide my hips over his, to rock against him. Would his hand slide further down my ass when he woke? Would he pull me down for a kiss? In his sleepiness, would he look more sweet or sexy? I could do my best to erase the way last night ended, and maybe he’d forgive me for crying all over him and leaving him unsatisfied in his own bed.
But to what end? It would be good, maybe even brilliant, but when it was over, there would be questions I couldn’t answer. And while my actions yesterday had tamed the need to use my gift, I wasn’t running on empty anymore. Not like last night.
In fact, I can feel the energy pulsing in me, announcing its presence, reminding me of who and what I am.
It would be stupid to start this again in the light of day. And I’d done enough stupid things in the last two weeks to last me for the next century.
No. I promised myself one night. And that night had already come and gone, so now I had to say goodbye. To this warm bed. To the heat of Wilder’s skin. To my one night of almost normal.
Carefully, I peel his hand off my back, and place it on the bed. I shift up on my knees, trying not to jostle the mattress too much, and then slip off the bed. The floor is cold, and the air-conditioner is still on full blast, so goose bumps riot across my skin.
I find my dress on the floor, and it's still damp and cold. I glance back at the bed, and a traitorous voice at the back of my mind wants him to wake up. I want him to see me there, standing naked in his room, and I want him to stop me from running, to take away this choice I have to make.
For a moment, I entertain the idea of being with him. Would it be possible? Could I hold back the energy from him and expend it elsewhere? But how would I keep that balance? And what kind of relationship could I ever have with him when I had to run off to satisfy my needs with another person every few days? No … even if I was willing to risk it, it could never work. No matter how badly I want it to.
Who knew it would be this hard? It's not as if I'm as young as I look. I've been around the block a few (thousand) times. We didn’t even sleep together. Not really. There are men that I've been far more intimate with, men who've known me better, longer. I should be able to file him away with the rest of the memories and move on.
I don't know why he's different. Sure, he's got the whole mystery factor with his odd ties and tattoos combo. And he's sweet. And he's caring. And he doesn't need anything from me.
But is that really enough to explain the tight pull I feel toward him now? It's almost as if there's …
My mouth goes dry.
A string. That's what I'd been about to say. I feel as if there's a cord between us, and no matter where I go or what I think, I can still feel its weight, the reminding pressure that he's there, that he's not going away.
I've never seen the fates, the three beings whose strings decide the life of every mortal and every god alike. They always remained separate from the rest of us. I think the greater gods didn't like the reminder that they weren't entirely in control of their own destinies, that in some ways they aren't that different than the mortals they place themselves so high above. But I've heard stories. I've heard that they appear both old and young all at once, their countenances shifting between one blink and the next. Some say that they are time. Others maintain that they're the only thing not affected by it. They are at once old and young, alive and dead. They are the past, present, and the future. Always.
I've never seen the fates, no. But I've felt them.
I clutch my damp dress close, but not even the cold fabric can keep me from tumbling into the memory.
Mel.
I don't think of her often. Not anymore. You don't live as long as I have without learning how to compartmentalize. And soon, you have so many thoughts stored away in so many boxes that they all sort of fade into the background.
Melpomene was one of my eight sisters. And for our early life, she was the chief muse of tragedy. The plays and poetry and music she inspired … there was a depth to it that wasn't rivaled by any of the rest of us. There was something about her that enabled the artist to dig deeper, to examine the darkest portions of the soul, but because of that she had … well, she had a higher rate of incident than the rest of us. Sometimes the artist would go so deep that she wasn't able to get them back. And while she might have dealt in tragedy, Mel wasn't swathed in darkness. She was light and brilliance and beauty. And she felt guilt. It clung to her more stubbornly than the rest of us.
Century after century, it weighed on her until her light began to fade. Somehow, even though she renewed daily like the rest of us, she began to look older. She had no wrinkles or graying hair or any other signs of age, but even so, we all saw it. Her eyes carried her years, the curve of her mouth was dragged down by the past.
In December of the year 557 A.D., we were in Constantinople. It was Brumalia, a festival for the winter solstice honoring the gods who held some connection to the harvest. By then, the gods had been re-christened with Roman names. Saturn. Ceres. Bacchus.