And so they meet. The universe deciding that she needs to be reminded of who she is, fast tracks him into her life. They barely shake hands and "nice to meet you" before he kisses her. He has kissed her so many times before. He doesn't ask for permission. She belonged to him many years ago. She is Bathsheba. She is Isolde. She fits into him like a puzzle piece, no uncomfortable position. They rekindle the love that they lost even before the pyramids were built. Their entanglement not even a mystery. Just a bond. In their past life together, she would sit at his feet as he would read aloud to her. He would kiss her forehead as she sweated through childbirth. He was more than a lover. More than a husband. The atoms that they share pull like magnets. Her shadow. She is his sin. He is her church. The universe ponders the power. The fireworks, the neediness, the forgiving. The couple reemerging.
And in parting, a black hole is ripped through her torso. A heavy ache that results in a spewing of hot tears. Desperate tears. Begging tears. And he is empty. And she is purging. And the universe, although aching with her, knows that time is everlasting. If only lovers understood how soon they will meet again. Funny how they commit acts of suicide in an effort to speed up their next meeting; desperate to be given a chance at a new beginning.
He will see her soon enough. Maybe not next week when she falls down the stairs. Maybe not next year when she is walking through Soho and a man with a gun steps out of the shadows. Maybe not in 20 years when her kids sit around her eating ice cream while she slips into the ether....but he will see her. They will stand on another battlefield as she lobs arrows and insults. He will read her a different book by a different fireplace. She will melt into him each night and be made whole again. Her Porthos, holder of her atoms.
