What, after all, even is a body?
I keep my soul in this vessel of irrelevant feelings, but it’s not as though it matters. Time will wear away the husk, leaving nothing else behind.
“Castor.”
He lifts his head an inch off his fist. “Yes, Mine?”
“You didn’t answer my question, even though I answered yours.”
“Ah.” The touch of a smile returns to him. “Your question offends me.”
“Why?”
“You ask if I’d listen to your wishes as though I wouldn’t have thrown myself off a mountain at your request earlier.Yes, love, I will listen to you. I’ve asked for nothing tonight but to listen to you. If only you’d let me, I would do little else. After all the ages I’ve spent in my own thoughts and regrets, I am eager to listen.”
Silence consumes me, tightening my chest.
So gently, he rests against his crossed arms, careful not to touch me as he whispers, “Keep talking, Mine.”
“Regrets?” I pin the tails of his pure white hair back behind one long ear, skimming the skin as I do. “What sorts of regrets?”
He shudders and blushes. “I’d rather not say.”
“Feeling very one-sided, this conversation is, Castor.”
“What is with the anastrophe?” he murmurs.
“What?”
He motions, vaguely. “The inversion of your…” Sighing, he settles. “Never mind.”
“You aren’t even going to give me the pleasure of one figure-of-speech definition? I’ve been rambling about how much I can’t stand being a model for hours, and this is what I get?”
“I was not aware women were so fond of term definitions.”
“What are you talking about? Womenloveterm definitions.” Ha. I crack myself up. This wine iscrazy.
He chuckles. The deep, reverberating sound jostles his shoulders, and his whole being angles as close to my fingers as it can. “Anastrophe, the inversion of the usual order of words or clauses.”
“Oh, baby, baby. Careful who you say that to.”
His lips tip upward, and it’s hard to ignore the blissful joy on his face. So what if it’s splattered with red and desperation. Red is such a bold color. Like the highlights of fire and the freshest of blood.
He says, “My feather.”
I hum.
“You did not actually answer me, you know. Even I understand the tone of sarcasm.”
I let my lips rest against the coolness of my glass.
“Do you dislike when I touch you?” he repeats.
What a mean question.
Spreading my thumb along the line of his cheekbone, I slip my touch up, toward his blindfold, skim the ragged hem.
Before I can blink, he catches my hand, stopping me. “Do not.”
