#micro-fiction

partner: A knife lies before you. You grab it. It fits into your hand perfectly.

new relationship energy: You feel invigorated. Your friends start gently complaining how you and your knife are joined at the hip.

nesting partner: You have brought the knife home. You can see yourself spending a significant amount of time with the knife around each day.

spouse: You decide you and this knife will stay together till death you parts.

munch: your senator pal Brutus invites you to dinner. You bring your knife. Of course you bring your knife. You have fun and decide to come back.

scene friends: Brutus and his knife like you and your knife.

private play party: They invite you to a more exclusive event. It will be just them and you and about 50 or 60 other people.

don't ask, don't tell: You go there. You have a hunch you know all of those people, but with what Brutus is discussing, you would rather not have it confirmed.

swinging: That night, in preparation for what is to come, you try handling all sorts of different knives. In the end, you return home with the knife you brought. You are happier for it, yet plagued with worry about whether you have done the right thing.

kitchen table polyamory: people sure have brought a lot of knives to this senate meeting.

polycule: You and the others are surrounding Caesar. You can barely make out which knife belongs to whom. Maybe it doesn't matter.

metamour: You stand over Caesar, about to stab him. You glance up and see another person about to stab Caesar. You nod. They nod back.

compersion: They reach out and gently adjust your grip on your knife. And while it is your knife still, in this moment, you both share a bond unique and different than the one of a senator and his knife.

aftercare: Caesar is lying dead on the floor of the hall. You absentmindedly polish your knife. You are not sure if you are present in this reality.

community leader: that asshole Marc Anthony is holding a speech. You realize nothing good ever comes out of someone calling himself "not an orator" in a public speech.

"They don't listen, ya know."

The figure in the yellow hoodie scribbles in his notebook as he speaks.

she was human, it's true, and he would always know that fact. She wasn't something to love, something to keep or  something to last.

But she loved him all the same, and maybe, just maybe, the miracle started there.

Because Nuada would never love her back, and yet, staying by his side  was fair enough.

He would give her other things in exchange, faith,     truths. a hundred of truths.

Not all of them pretty.

And perhaps, that was close enough to love.

A different one. The kind of love that hurts all the time, and drowns you deep. And somehow makes you breath three times better. Because "that love" doesn't know what happiness means,

just Blood,

and greed,

and pain.

And greed again, and again...and again.

But, she probably will die without  ever know that fact.

Everybody dies without knowing many things anyway.

And it's fine.

She didn't need to know Nuada loved her.

That’s the thing.

She never asked  to be loved back.

(Photo: Pierre Bamin on Unsplash)   When voice failed and She could no longer Think She turned to Ink For words on velum Scribbled Fast Translated Into heart.       For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Ink in 22 words  

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