Innkeeper's Song

ROSSETH

Lal has dimples in both shoulders. Lal’s collarbones are as proud and velvety as the spring antlers of a young sintu. The back of Lal’s neck makes me cry as she bends her head down to me.

Lukassa smells of fresh, fresh melons and peppers and spice-apples on market stalls. Her breasts are softer and more pointed than Nyateneri’s breasts, and the insides of her forearms are transparent, truly—I can almost see little blue fish sculling serenely in and out between her veins. Putting her hand on me, she finds Lal’s hand there already. She turns her head and smiles, so simply.

Nyateneri. I cannot see Nyateneri. Her hands move on me, too, and she bites my mouth until blood comes, but I cannot see her face.