Thief of Fire

He comes to her in thewinter, when the blood is slow and thick, and the senses sleep.

* * *

Sometimes the heartsings out to music the mind does not hear. Right or wrong, good orbad – even safe or lethal – have nothing to do with it. Late atnight, her husband asleep bedside her, she tries to think of reasons.But it is the music of unreason that her heart hears; it pulls ather, and she wants to dance.

* * *

She believes theaffair is her choice. Yes; he's seductive: yes; aggressive, too, inhis way. But still she thinks the choice to be her own; to accept orreject. That no man's arrogance could override that.

Later, she admits thatthere had been little choice in the matter. She consoles herself bybelieving that it runs both ways; that there is something – somechemistry or karmic knot – that has brought and tied themtogether. But this is even less honest.

* * *

They come together athis place, an apartment over some stores in the shopping district oftown.

When he takes herthere for the first time, he has a shy, excited quality about him.Standing at the door, fitting the key into the lock, he turns andlooks over his shoulder at her, his dark eyes bright and full of openlonging. His smile is almost perplexed, as though for all of hisdesire to achieve this moment, he can't quite believe that it hascome to pass.

He opens the door andenters, walking through a tiny square foyer, then turning to wait onthe other side. Now his smile is hesitant, fearful; this is themoment when he would wake from the dream, should that be the case.She follows through the narrow walls of the foyer, and it is like atunnel, a passageway to another country. Then she emerges, and themaster of the realm is there to greet her.

There is no urgency inhis manner, and she responds to this with a languor of her own. Hisexcitement, his heat, is resonant in the room, but rather thanrushing through it, he seems to savor it, as he touches her arm, andruns his fingers up to her shoulder.

The living room isapportioned with the most generic furniture imaginable. A squatarmchair, covered with a rough, knobby material of pale green. Along, low couch of black vinyl, its rectangular cushions worn attheir corners. A square dark coffee table of scratched,overvarnished wood. A stolid, industrial weave carpet, worn inpatches and faded with age.

It has a nearly seedy,transient quality, yet the room is filled with the character that hehas given it. Prints on heavy posterboard adorn the walls, drawing ofintricate designs: mandalas, labyrinths, triskelions amidst tanglesof Celtic knots. There are odd collections of objects gathered on allthe flat surfaces: a long, grey feather, a smooth, black stone, andan old brass skeleton key; a spray of tiny dried flowers, tied withbraided grass; a long bone, polished to an ivory gleam, crossed by atwig bristling with spiky black thorns. In the air hangs the musk ofincense; a heady, nearly tangible scent.

He goes to a bureauagainst the wall, where there is a massive white candle set in abronze bowl. It sits before a mirror, and is flanked by more smallgroupings of objects. He lifts a small, silver box, slides it open,and takes out a match. He lights the candle with such unselfconsciousease, that it is clear this is an utterly routine thing for him.