about longing . . .
for the divine,
for each other.
"Pelim’s eyes narrowed as she muttered, "Why is my husband covered in gold?" Her mouth a tight seam, she stood and shuffled to the cabinet where she kept her needles. She thought to Adam, 'Do not watch me.' Large and small, the needles lined each wall of her cabinet like the bitter fingernails of her sisters. Pelim stepped inside and shut the door.
As the darkness waited, she reached into her heart and took out the cup. The one that held all the love her heart was capable of containing, with its elaborately carved wooden handle. Still the cup of a child. Unbreakable. Pelim remembered the day his love had poured into it, splashing over, dripping down her arms in golden rivulets. The promise in his eyes. You are delicious, he had said. Sweet.' She winced at the memory now. Passing her fingers over her face, Pelim knew she had become a spoiled fruit, her bitterness eating her up from the inside."