For a few years now, this had been Shoshanna’s greatest fear, dying utterly alone in bed, having only ever had pathetic, unfinished dreams of what it’s like to be kissed, caressed, held, or loved. Often times this feeling has plagued her; she has a hole in her chest, a vulnerable soft spot aching to be filled, or just touched for a brief moment of eternity.
Once upon a time, we were young and ardent and that one organ in my cavernous chest pumped in time with yours. Your parents had named you Markus and when your lips parted to whisper in the close dark nights you always called me Clodia. At night you were sweet and slow and second-guessed every move you made.
In the eternal darkness that is a winter midnight, I threw all my suspicions to the wind and consulted a false prophet. I’ve been lonely as of late, waiting for a knight—any knight—even one riding by in tarnished armor on a sickly nag, to stop for me. The mood was just right for me to be properly duped into thinking I was Venus.