The night thrashes. Whooshes. Dead leaves claw at your window. Branches snap.
But why do you quake? Surely the walls of your house have withstood
greater forces. You are warm beneath your blankets and await no one's
safe return. You're quite used to being alone. There once were men, of
course. Many men. But you grew tired of them or they of you, until you
tired of the whole ordeal. And now they are old and grey and bald and
fat, and you are unencumbered. Not stuck watching them fail or
listening to their tedious complaints. No snores and smells and
pathetic attempts at sex. No bedside vigils.
But the wind, the wind. It blasts the dead from their graves. It sighs
and groans like a young lover. Like Levi. Levi who never got the
chance to grow old. Levi with the soul of a child and the passion of a
man. He comes to you on nights like this, when sleep and waking dance
and wrestle. Your sweet young camel driver, your Arabian Prince, he
blows in on a sirocco and rides you through the sultry cinnamon night,
his softness drawing milk from your breasts, his hardness releasing
your shudders. And you crush him in your arms and howl like the wind, I love you. I love you. I love you. As if you haven't already
betrayed him. As if, in the ruthless sunlight, you didn't see his
pleading eyes and turn away.