The human heart is an abyss.
Through tunnels, and chambers, the organ beats and the world, in each persons life, continues to churn. With that heart, life is a reality.
But, every so often, exceptions have to be made.
Every so often a heart breaks...
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Her golden hair lays strewed like an open fan against the silk pillow, soft bouncing waves flaying out in every which direction. With the sun beaming down upon it from the open window, the tendrils catch onto the light, damn near sparkling. Her sun-kissed body, lithe and gentile, seems to glow against the cream-colored bedding while she lies sleeping. She's on her stomach, one arm awkwardly placed over her pillow, her other hand tucked right under her subtle chin.
From the window, I can count the pink scars on her body like a crossword puzzle. Even some of her birthmarks too. Only her waist is wrapped in a thin sheet, not needing more considering it's the hottest month of the year in Prague. We arrived a week ago, and wishing to be anything but the usual band of tourists, we devoted the first two days to sight-seeing, to picture taking.
Now seven days in, we're on our own schedule, on our own timeline. Our tickets do not have a return date. After the initial shock, and the days that followed her breakthrough, where she devoted her time to compartmentalizing events, understanding the gravity of how much she'd lost, there was no hesitation.
We packed bags and left.
To be alone together felt crucial. It was clear in those first few weeks that we both felt concerned on whether we could fall back into the type of connection we shared before the pentagon incident. We talked gently, we moved gently, we made love gently.
Something about a different country, a different place, it changed that. From the moment we stepped foot in Prague, a certain kind of freedom settled into our lives. The foreign surroundings made it crucial to rely on each other. While those first days running about the city were a gift, the lackadaisical ease we're living in now is something I've never known with a woman.
While there were women before Nora, I never lived with a single one, never became invested enough to meet family, or consider a joint pet. Nora, in our unusual pact void of love, was the first person I ever lived with...the only person until now. I hardly remember the small period of time we lived together before her disease took over. When it did, our home felt like a hospital.
Even in the better days where she and I shared the same bed, a calculated distance was always kept. She had her routine, I had mine. We stuck to it, never inclined to test limits.
Then I had diminished views on what love was. Nora and I shared a mutual affection. Sometimes, especially right after Lily was born, I considered the thought that maybe it had grown into more.
All it took was meeting a stubborn, beautiful, invasive journalist to answer that question in its entirety.
Not a single novel in my library could measure up, or even explain, what I feel when I look at her. Sometimes it seems as if my body doesn't even have the capacity for the devastating emotion she brings me. And it's all of Josephine, in everything she does. Her smile, her laugh, her nervous ticks.
