by Mira Zamin
***
Afterwards, we lay in the quiet and for a moment, the barriers were down, our hearts open for the reading. Did he know it was a singular instance?
“Do you love me?” I asked, raising myself up on my elbow. My stomach knotted, awaiting his answer.
“I…” It was his turn to be rendered speechless by a question. “Do you love me?”
Stung—and relieved—by his inability to answer his question, I replied, “I do not see why I should. Particularly after the way you treated me after we were first reunited and more or less every day after that. You bloodied me, bruised me, treated me in a way that even prisoners are not treated,” I said flatly.
“Damn it, Selene, I did what I did out of necessity. I did what I did for you.”
I laughed hoarsely and pulled my dress back on. “Get out, Gwydion. Get out. I will see you after the funeral.”
“Selene…”
I was resolute, forcing myself to not feel his warmth beside me nor the comfortable bulk of his body. For a moment, his hands tightened and I steadied myself for the coming strike, but it did not come. His arms hung loose at his sides once more.
I gathered myself, finding some fount of firmness, and commanded, “Leave.”
He lingered at the door. “Is it because I do not love you?”
I sighed heavily. As in so many other things, it was fruitless to hope that Gwydion would understand my mind. “No, it is not that.”