Displaced tale of Shaharazade

I did not know a question would decide my fate. It was a question that rolled off my tongue, illuminating what I most loved, and what I most feared would become of it.

The air was electric, with breath and love and thunder rolling across the plain. We made love. Your breath was hot on my cheeks with your hair falling into mine. We did not sleep.

I thought that it was the beginning of the end. And so, I made you laugh, I made you cry, I made you plead to me. The roles became twisted and for a few hours I felt like master. Somewhere in North Dakota, in an old farmhouse, at the end of America, where thunder tumbles and grumbles, crawling its way towards your eardrums. Somewhere in between all this, there was a bed and a space, between our noses, our chests, my throat and your adams apple. Between all this was the space that I filled, and then beyond. Stopping only when the lightening clawed our eyes or I asked for permission to use the bathroom. Tiptoeing throughout a house that creaks, and faucets that moan.

I see you like this now. We are old, and our children have grown, and yet this is always how I think of you. You will be gone soon, and I will carry on. Your young wife that was the last to be picked.

I see you, afraid and mean. Lusting for what you always denied yourself the pleasure of for a second time. I see you, with gold flecks in your hair, and a smooth face. There were no wrinkles, for your smile rarely made it to your eyes. 

I, also, was afraid, but perhaps I did the job of fooling you. Later, you will tell me that I looked beautiful.

And how do I describe? The words filling the air, and the stars and the moon turned upside down. And my lips and your eyes watching, and the whiskey. How do I remember this? Ripples. And oceans overflowing. And sand in my throat and burnt sugar on my tongue. And the night turned light and the world filled with gold.

How could I know that I would come to love? That it was not until years after this night, when my voice was hoarse, and my tongue dried out, that I would come to love this moment, with all its imperfect danger.

I asked, May I tell you a story?

You replied, Until Dawn.