Knowing

They knew what it
was. Sometimes their eyes
met. She knew the sound
of his hand on her skin, had
memorized the darkness. It
was his from the start, she knew, and
no one else’s, since he had
been alone in this world, up until
then. That was what he said, at
least. And she believed him, or needed
to, she believed that he was
different from the rest. And
for the moment he was, too,
just like the rest had been. But
he had a special way of looking
at her. He had her face memorized.
She knew this because of the way
he looked at her. He must have been
mesmerized, she concluded and
looked deeply into his
eyes. She knew the darkness,
the pauses, the ignorance, the
silences, she knew his patterns
like no one else or no one
else’s, for that matter. She had
known many men. She had not
known any. She could count
them on her two hands, trace her
palms back through her own
history, place them together and
feel the emptiness. She knew the darkness,
both hers and his, by
                                           heart.

-- Nina Sokol