departure

The taste of the ocean after swimming. Speaking to an old friend for the first time in years.

My memories are like that, indelicate yet graceful and forever untrustworthy. In them, I am a better man then the one I am now. The person I was yesterday is cleverer and more amusing. His words were crafted with great care and singular purpose. In comparison, the words I use today are accidental, clumsy and benign.

This particular memory is only half realized; I can remember the words as they left me, remember the way they tasted as they passed through my lips while I drifted near the edge of sleep. But they were silhouetted words, sheer and razor-thin, fragile in their cruelty, and I cannot remember how well they survived the rite of speech.

I was telling her what I planned to do once I had her under me: kneeling over her bare back, a sharp curved knife in one hand, my other on the back of her neck to hold her perfectly still. I told her I would carve her the wings she craved. I would trace their shape along the smooth skin of her back in precision and eloquence. Her wings would be bold, bloody, and beautiful.

I wanted her to fly.

Or, at least, I wanted the memory of it.