Alone With You in the Ether

You can’t fix me,” she whispered to him, her mouth tracing his neck. Do you understand, do you know what you hold in your hands, do you know how readily it breaks?

“I don’t see anything to fix,” he said

He was a lover of all things beautiful, all things sensual, though he loved them best as a caretaker, a keeper.

She just found the whole thing very strange, and he’d stuck in her brain a little bit, embedding himself there like a thorn. Like something on the tip of her tongue or hovering just at the edge of her periphery.

Luckily, Aldo was not a ‘right now’ sort of person. It had once been a quality that frustrated the other people in his life, but he’d gotten rid of most of them by now.

Did it matter where it started, and would it matter where it would end? Either yes, it mattered very much, because everything was a consequence of something and therefore what became of them was somehow predetermined, or no, it did not matter at all, because beginnings and endings were not as important as the moments that could have happened or the outcomes that might have been. Either it was everything to know the whole story, to look back and see the shape of it while standing along its periphery; or it was nothing, because things in their entirety were less fragile and therefore less beautiful than the pieces within the frame.

It was about time for a new paring knife

That doesn’t count as one of the six

No, it totally is. You gave yourself an impossible problem so you’d never be able to stop thinking about it. It’s brilliant, actually.” She sounded close to impressed.

but I didn’t like having clients. Nobody knows what they want, not really. ‘Oh, change it, I don’t like it,’ but then they can never explain what they want me to change. I’ve never liked dealing with other people’s tastes.”

,” he permitted, nodding.

She was gratified he didn’t say you’ll like it. That was one of her least favorite phrases; it was always unwisely assured. She hated all scenarios preceding the assumption that someone could predict her taste. Either they thought it universal enough that she could be lumped in with masses or they thought (usually incorrectly) that they understood her specific needs, and she wasn’t sure which crime was worse.

Ultimately, though, she thought the wine was good. She didn’t know the proper words for it, but was relieved that Aldo didn’t offer any. He merely took a sip, glancing with that same degree of discomfort over his shoulder.