#11: midsummer

The festival was, of course, quite wonderful—a worthy feast for all the senses. One of the more striking moments came in a ghostly hymn, sung by a chorus in the dead hour of midnight. I saw her then, a woman lonely amongst the patrons, but I do not think she saw me.

With the arrival of the harvest, Jessica's house made preparations to move to far Athens, where she would make home with her beloved. Passing by her street on my daily route to the market, I saw long tiers of boxes being catalogued for the ships. The atmosphere was decidedly joyful, as many of her friends came by to fondly wish her a good journey.

I looked on from the curb. But before I continued on my way, she saw me, the smile from a recent laugh still on her face, eyes twinkling. I saw her legs, like milk, reaching so high to someplace rich with heavenly promises.

With the ache so strong, I reached out with my mind and held onto this moment, held on so tight that I swore it would never be forgotten—not one delicious detail; not one unspoken word.

And then, I slowly turned. And I slowly left.

—Eurymachus, March 06, 2003