gone

The cat I befriended today was a very dark gray without any bit of white.

Last night I dreamt I married Taamet.

Above our slow embroidered procession, so many stoneheads gawked from their windows, so to distract the solemn, the beautiful, the wed. As if Taamet might admire her green. Her red and white. Herself.

From the top of the stair, I watched her climb to the upper room, to the kid’s throat waiting to be cut, to the blood spurting towards the bowl (also waiting) and given me to drink, then I to her, and tastes like…

Taamet had never seen a pencil. When she touched it, it rolled off the table and broke. Taamet picked it up and examined its brokeness. I, in a futuristic sort of way, lay dead in my chair. “Look in the drawer for a silver locket. See what is inside, a long time hidden in the tooth of the saint,” I said.
It was indeed another craft, double crossed, some precious metal, small, too old or yet to be, in six tiny squares.

Taamet busies herself finding shirts in the dark. She curses herself so many times.