I like this small color. Your eyes are a small color. I cannot tell what. Like blue but green, only ice or opal with no fire.
She sits up suddenly, pushes the other completely on her back and brushes the hair out of her eyes, looking deep, looking for a spark.
When I first see you, with my companion all full of the Shakespeare books and me with nothing to show, and nothing to trade, at Smitties, we come there for me, to trade some small thing, but we are there late in the dark so we get a room and I take a bath. I love to take baths. Then we go down and smell the funny smells and there are almost no colors that are good, but we sleep inside and drink beer and talk, talk with friends and enemies and people we don’t know, so we can hear the stories.
In the morning, my head hurts and there is no trade except the small gray man in the corner, ribbons and plastics that no one wants scattered on a folding tray in front of him. He doesn’t look at us and we try not to look much at him because we do not ever want to be there in the corner like that. We are going, our small bags packed and the Shakespeare bundled safely. We pay and we go to the door, and there you are with the one who owns you. Your man has no good colors. He is dirty and his eyes are brown like shit without shine. He says you are worth more to him in an hour than the rings my companion holds out for you. So my companion cannot buy you because he doesn’t have enough rings. When I look at you, with your hair all colors falling down and your eyes hiding secrets, I think I feel something that makes my face red. I do not look at you. I look at the men. They talk serious. He says he cannot trade you for too little. I look at you again, and then I see that your skin is almost as brown as me, but there is white just under the top.
A small hand curves along the top of one breast.
Here, and I see that, and I want to see more, what is in the shadows. I am hot to my ears, but I still want to see. Then you smile, a little, at me. I have my rings to trade, and my companion is angry and talks about rights and slavery, but I remember what it is to be in the now and do what I must do. So, I give your man all the rings on my left hand and I take your chains in that hand and I walk away. He shouts that it is not enough, and that he wants his chains, but I do not listen because I know better. When we are outside, my companion is happy. He looks young, smiling wide with white teeth and lines around his mouth. His yellow hair flaps in the sun as he dances. He slaps my back and tells me that we will take you back to the gathering people, but I do not go. He gets angry, but I take you here, alone, because I want to know. I do not understand. I look at your eyes and I cannot see. I want to know what you see.
The chained girl stretches slim brown arms above her head and arches her back, bruises and scrapes occluded by the darkness and the flickering fire. Her eyes are flat. The links rattle. The speaker takes a key from her belt and removes the chains, setting them aside. A glint of knowledge in the eyes, a hand rises and slides to the back of the speaker’s neck, pulls her down, mouths meet. The speaker sobs as the kisses grow violent, both girls stroke and shift, rocks bruise bones through the thin blanket. They come together violently, the speaker finally spending herself by wrapping her thighs around the other girl and rocking violently, thrashing in her haste and eagerness. They sprawl together, half on the blanket, half on the ground, until the speaker’s heart slows and she realizes the blanket is wrapped around the other girl and she is alone, naked in the sand. She rolls away and speaks.
I do not know if you hear me. I wish you to. I will take you to the gathering people in the morning. They will give you my room, maybe. I have other clothes there. Maybe you will use them. Maybe you will know how to treat books.