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Where We Began
“This is where we began.” He lifts a fork, appraises her, catches the flight of angels, pops air into his void of a mouth. The room reeks of fur.
She rotates her plate a degree and fails to find her face in it. “I feel as though there are always moths in this room.” Under the furs, between the slats, folded against the walls, bustling in the closet. Munching. Flying. Fighting.
“There always are.” He doesn’t seem to care whether there are. In fact, he doesn’t seem to concern himself with truth at all, perhaps regarding its pursuit as an unfortunate if not unenlightened habit. He continues eating nothing, but never chews it. A bad mime.
After dinner, he lays her down on a cow hide in absolute darkness. Her feet are sizzling like a rose. She touches one and it is cool as earth. Yet through her hair she hears him light a match, but cannot see its spark nor light; it is too dark.
“Latin, Latin, Latin,” he intones.
“Yes, that certainly sounds like Latin,” she confirms.
A trickle of ants runs over her shoulder, gnaws at a strap, and soon removes her shirt. She shivers in the warmth. A powerful vision, even scent, of baking bread visits her; she rolls from side to side, murmuring, “Mother.”
He presses her through the floor.
