On the island, in a rented cottage, she stays with her husband. He is kind, thoughtful, closed in on himself. She is closed in on herself, too. They’ve taken a few weeks to piece together what remains of their relationship; a plant they never tended enough, one they didn’t know how to care for—something you only learn with time, something that takes time to understand. The heat is heavy, humid, like breathing water.
Then a boy arrives. Handsome — more handsome than the husband — narrow face, lost eyes, frightened. He is very beautiful, very thin, bleeding, wounded. Blood runs from his head and nose. The boy says he needs help, confused, asking for water. He drinks and drinks — glass after glass — he can’t stop asking. They call the landlord, but he doesn’t answer. Night has fallen. They dress his wounds, offer him food. He eats quickly, noisily. They let him rest.
At dawn she rises to drink. Water with lemon — she can’t drink plain water. The boy is awake, on the sofa, the doors wide open to the fading cool of the night. He stares at the ceiling, lost, then looks at her. Sitting up, still bleeding from his nose. She hands him a rag. He blots at the blood on his shirt and the sofa. She passes him the bottle of cold water. The boy presses it to his nose. Drops fall to the floor, forming a small dark pool.
She wants to ask what happened to him. Yet the dawn, the moment, the unspeakable pull leaves her paralyzed. A thousand times she has written of him. Writing is like having a fever — without fever, you cannot write.
The dawn is stentorian, motionless, breathless. She moves closer to the sofa, sits on its arm, studies him. He asks her name. He is blunt and brash, like a three-year-old, yet his eyes surrender to her. There is a readiness in him, a docility about to break open. His hands are large, smeared with blood.
From the garden wafts the smell of grass, mint, brambles, sheep, sea. He wets the rag with cold water, wipes his hands, his face, his shoulders. He sits on the floor and holds it out. She takes his hand. Leaning closer, she takes his other hand, kneels before him. Her touch moves to his face, brings hers near his, breathes in the smell of blood, of iron. A primal need to merge with this man. They embrace, tightly. She tilts her head to one side, offering her throat. Their bodies press, fusing into each other.
The next morning she washes the fabrics she dyed with tea and artichokes. Her heart lurches at the memory of his eyes, of him. She goes to her husband, kisses him, asks him to leave. Staying on the island, she will find a place and dye her fabrics. The bleeding boy will return to her and remain, from morning to night, every single hour of every single day of every single life, as it has always been.
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