“This is strange, right?” she asks.
“Such is the paradox of Tabula Rasa. To have to rediscover things we’ve already discovered. To remaster what we’ve already conquered. We live in the present while unearthing the past, unbeknownst to us.”
“Enough to make your head spin,” she says.
“Tabula Rasa does get a few things right,” he says.
He looks at her as if trying to arrive at a decision. Then he gets up and comes to stand behind her.
She holds her breath, unable to predict what he is going to do. She feels his hand at her temple. He sweeps up a section of hair and tugs it behind her ear. The gesture elicits a familiar warmth in her.
“You will never take anyone for granted, because you will lose them,” he says.
He moves her hair over one shoulder.
“You’ll treasure all your experiences as if they’re your last.”
His hand is on her neck now, caressing it.
“You will fall in love over and over with the same person.”
She tilts her head to the side and closes her eyes.
“It’s the reality of it that kills you. Every time you wake, realizing it was just a dream, a piece of you dies,” he says.
Suddenly she sees Tabula Rasa as a black cloud—a storm in the distance, moving closer as each minute passes.
She feels his breath at her earlobe. He kisses it, and she manages to hold a moan in her throat. His lips glide along her jawline, and down her neck.
“The Dreamers are dangerous, so I’ve been told,” she says.
He snickers. “Are we?”
“You have the power to rip through the fabric of our society trying to get at the past. There’s nothing in the past but the Last War,” she says.
“There is so much more in the past than that,” he whispers and pulls the loose neck of her blouse to the side, exposing her shoulder.
“And besides, I don’t want to rip anyone’s fabric but yours,” he says.
He kisses the tip of her shoulder and runs his hand along the edge of her blouse, like an animal searching through grass for its burrow.
His hot palms move down the curves of her breasts. Lower and lower. A moan escapes her lips. She hears the loud scratching sound of her chair dragging against the wood floors and feels the wind stirring her hair. Metis is standing in front of her now.
He lifts her easily off the chair. Air whooshes past her as he carries her up the stairs. The next thing she touches is the soft mattress. The faint lavender scent of the sheets caresses her nose.
He comes to her with the hunger of a starving man. Her head whirls. Bright dots dance in her vision. She becomes nerve endings, feeling her way like a blind person through the tunnel of his desire. Her body is malleable in his hands as he changes its shape to fit his mold. She is reminded of the concert, of the feeling that she is about to lift off into the sky. She grabs onto him for anchorage as they soar into oblivion.
She does not know where her body ends and his begins. Their legs and arms are intertwined with the sheet, like caterpillars spinning silk to become chrysalises.
Aris hears a sigh. It came from her.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “That was unexpected. You’re not upset, are you?”
She turns to look at him. “Don’t be sorry, I’m far from being upset.”
“I had planned to woo you before we, you know,” he says.
“Define wooing,” she says.
“Dinner, music, flowers. Maybe a play. You love plays.”
“Quite a plan,” she says.
“Then I might steal a few more kisses good night.” He leans over and presses his warm lips on hers.
“And?” She glides her hand down the hard line of his back muscles, feeling its dampness.
“And maybe after you feel comfortable enough around me, we can take it to the next level.” He peels the sheet off her. Her hands automatically move to cover her bosom.
“I’m sorry we ruined your plan. It was a really good one,” she says.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m far from being upset,” he says with a sly smile. He pulls her hands off and replaces them with his face.
She feels his palm caressing her inner thigh. It moves dangerously higher and higher. She grabs it.
“You’re not—already?”
“I’m afraid I am,” he says.
“But we just . . .”
“Well, you can’t blame a starving man for wanting to gorge himself on the most beautiful meal in front of him.”
“You’ve been starving?” she asks, surprised.
“This cycle, yes.”
“But it’s been almost four years.”
“Umm-hmm . . .” he says as he nibbles his way through the courses.
“Seriously?” she asks, pulling his face up.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says and goes back to what he was doing.
“Wow.”
“Is that a bad ‘wow’?” He looks up at her.
“You just made me feel like I’ve been unfaithful.”
“It’s okay. I forgive you,” he says, “You didn’t remember.”
“So, you never thought of being with other people?”
“No.”
“Not even once?” she asks.
“No.”
“Oh, wow.”
“You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing,” he says.
“No, it’s just . . . I’m honored, I guess.”
“Don’t be. I didn’t do it for you,” he says.
“Oh?”
She sits up and draws her knees to her chest. He comes to the same position. She looks at him for an answer.
He says, “Unlike you, I remember. I started remembering early on. I’ve been searching for you all this time, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to live with myself once we found each other if I didn’t stay faithful to our memories. So I just never had the urge.”
“Never?”
“Well, yeah, but not, you know.”
“It’s just not natural.”
“Pardon me?”
“Humans are naturally polyamorous. It’s a scientific fact. We are promiscuous. We get bored. We get restless. We like to sample different tastes. That’s why I’ve never understood marriage. Why chain your instinct?” she says.
“Monogamy is a decision you make every single day. You decide that the person you’re with is who you want, and you
