So where do I begin?
Her posture or maybe her eye made apparent her role in this drama and I never questioned it. My only concern was to find out what kind of sadness made her so attractive to me.
The night was as hazy as our heads and the fire was crackling and full of vigor. We could have been gypsies by the way we danced, drank, and sang while she stayed seated and somber, her one eye gleaming from the fire and her countenance a study of consternation.
What does she see now? I wondered as she gazed deep into the pyre, her thick mascara running down her cheek as she cried silently.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just a memory."
But to know that memory would be more intimate than sex. She wore her mystery like a cosmetic and had all the appeal of Greek tragedy.
The next morning the wind brought the trees to life and they scratched at the windows as if begging to be taken in. She was standing by the window.
"Do you want to see the inside of my head?" She asked abruptly, as if forcing the question through her teeth.
I didn't speak. The most I could do was to nod my head, my eyes still unfocused and my mouth hanging slack and dry.
She lifted the black satin patch slowly, and as timid as if undressing in front of a stranger
and she told me her story.