[Action] She Sighs His Name So Sweetly
Attis was a man.
He might have been heralded as an orator with a tongue of silver from which dripped words of heavenly inspiration but his flesh was inevitably earthbound; beneath it there was blood to be spilled and a heart just as fragile as any other's so when his dear friend propositioned him, who was he to deny her what she craved?
"How cruel the follies of men," He'd said when he took Marianne's hand in his and lead her, the broken goddess, to his grocery. Closed for the weekend, dark but for the candlelight at the table he'd set out for two in back. On the patio overlooking the harbor, awash in celestial luminance and the sound of waves constant in their crashing on the shoreline.
It was Mediterranean cuisine, predictably, that he served but it was cooked especially for her. Made especially for her by the man crafting beautiful, lilting condolences and praises just for her. He poured the ozuo with a careful grace each time- never hesitant, never less than perfectly adoring. From Attis, the sympathy didn't feel like polite pity, it felt natural. Genuine empathy. As though he knew precisely what she was feeling. When she'd had enough wine, when it came time to head down the small beaten, sandy path onto the beach to the dock where his boat bobbed up and down in the water.
They cast off in silence but for the murmur of the engine and the rush of wind. A persistent, comfortable lull that lasted when they stopped, shrouded in darkness with the reflection of the stars on the sea around them and the twinkle of lights from the land they'd left behind.
How many hours had passed with Attis's arms wrapped around her as they lay on the deck watching clouds drift lazily over the moon could not be said. There should have been something murmured but there was not. There should have been desperate touches but there were none. Not a single moment of awkward fumbling, of vaguely regrettable but likely very stimulating contact. He stroked her hair and murmured to her whispers of hope and halcyon days until they both grew drowsy and Attis maneuvered them gradually into the tiny cabin below. Swaddled them in blankets, tucked them in on the little cot by the wall.
Kissed her.
On the forehead. On each cheek. But never the lips. "Love may not be eternal, latria mou.But for its brevity... it is all the more precious."
He offered nothing more, no explanation as to which 'love' he referred to and what he intended her to glean from it. Warmed by drink and close company, lulled by the constant sway of the boat, he drifted into sleep with Marianne clutched gently to his chest.
He might have been heralded as an orator with a tongue of silver from which dripped words of heavenly inspiration but his flesh was inevitably earthbound; beneath it there was blood to be spilled and a heart just as fragile as any other's so when his dear friend propositioned him, who was he to deny her what she craved?
"How cruel the follies of men," He'd said when he took Marianne's hand in his and lead her, the broken goddess, to his grocery. Closed for the weekend, dark but for the candlelight at the table he'd set out for two in back. On the patio overlooking the harbor, awash in celestial luminance and the sound of waves constant in their crashing on the shoreline.
It was Mediterranean cuisine, predictably, that he served but it was cooked especially for her. Made especially for her by the man crafting beautiful, lilting condolences and praises just for her. He poured the ozuo with a careful grace each time- never hesitant, never less than perfectly adoring. From Attis, the sympathy didn't feel like polite pity, it felt natural. Genuine empathy. As though he knew precisely what she was feeling. When she'd had enough wine, when it came time to head down the small beaten, sandy path onto the beach to the dock where his boat bobbed up and down in the water.
They cast off in silence but for the murmur of the engine and the rush of wind. A persistent, comfortable lull that lasted when they stopped, shrouded in darkness with the reflection of the stars on the sea around them and the twinkle of lights from the land they'd left behind.
How many hours had passed with Attis's arms wrapped around her as they lay on the deck watching clouds drift lazily over the moon could not be said. There should have been something murmured but there was not. There should have been desperate touches but there were none. Not a single moment of awkward fumbling, of vaguely regrettable but likely very stimulating contact. He stroked her hair and murmured to her whispers of hope and halcyon days until they both grew drowsy and Attis maneuvered them gradually into the tiny cabin below. Swaddled them in blankets, tucked them in on the little cot by the wall.
Kissed her.
On the forehead. On each cheek. But never the lips. "Love may not be eternal, latria mou.But for its brevity... it is all the more precious."
He offered nothing more, no explanation as to which 'love' he referred to and what he intended her to glean from it. Warmed by drink and close company, lulled by the constant sway of the boat, he drifted into sleep with Marianne clutched gently to his chest.