I know it can't be happening.Yet I can still smell her on me. I close my eyes and inhale and she is sitting next to me. I open my eyes and it...she...is still there next to me. With every breath, I take in the oxygen that sustains my life, and I take in the fragrance that sustains my imagination.I imagine again the softness of her lips as she gives me two tentative and gentle kisses on my cheek.I imagine again the feel of her arms around my body, as she holds me tightly against her.I imagine again the taste of her kiss. The kiss that betrays the soul within and its intent. The kiss that cannot possibly be our first kiss, on the first day we have met face to face.I can still smell her on me. Does she know what her fragrance did to me yesterday? Could she possibly know? It is still winter, in spite of the calendar date saying it is spring. In the chill of a Canadian spring, we both dress for winter. Layers to keep out the cold, but layers that also shield ourselves from curious. But it did.He waited, hammer upraised, not hearing the ovation coming from the stands, by the men who, foolishly, thought he was just prolonging the tension, and the fear of the victim. Lila, her heart beating an irregular, rapid, tattoo, in her ears, opened her eyes, unwillingly drawn to look at the nail, dimpling the skin on her wrist. She noticed his hand, holding the cruel iron spike steady, even the small hairs, on the back of his fingers; hairs that she liked to taste with her tongue. Lila knew that, whatever else, Manu was not delaying for her benefit; she looked up at his tortured face and saw the tears, crawling down his cheeks, dropping, slowly, from his chin.And then the hammer came down.Her world became white. White, as in the white explosion of pain that replaced her arm. The white wave of pain that crashed into her, only to return in an even stronger wave, shook her entire body, bound as it was to the cross, by her arms and knees.Her shriek of horror, scattered the birds.
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