He was a broken angel, a stunningly beautiful boy sitting on a saxophone case on the side of the road. Purple hat, bottle green pants, blue leather shoes. We nodded, one eccentric to the other, and he spoke to me in french. I remembered him, later, from so many years ago that I might have been a different height.
I stood on a table and shouted last week. “This is your only proven chance. The Right Thing is to be, not some societal structured decision on what’s polite.” I hadn’t felt anger like that in so long. I had forgotten. My voice, it snapped off the tips of the words. Hot words. “Do what you need to do now, there is no later.”
I think I’m going to bring him home with me. A bad idea, but a necessary one. When the chemical conversion has finished, I will either be snuffed out or unrequired, but this is the time I have. It’s rare to find people as scraped hollow as I am. He’s going to be a father in a few days to a child he didn’t want. Roe VS Wade for men.
He called me Pandora, the man I shouted at. I love him more than I should be allowed. Traditionally, Pandora was a poisoned gift for man, sent by the gods to punish the theft of fire. Beautiful, deft, clever, and with a talent for healing, still it was her blessing of mischievous curiosity that brought worry to the world, not her grace.
He is one of the people, precious and rare, who bring fire. I would hate to follow history, but I worry that I will. Last night as I walked home the nine o’clock gun sounded like storm heavy thunder. I had sat with the boy for two hours, his heart a black shuttered star, still guttering, else I would not have been there.
When I left, I poured barefoot into the night. When I left, he closed the door. When I left, I said “Good night, sweet prince, dream well. The world is still waiting for you.”
When I had dangerously opened my dowry, my carved box, I had tasted faith.