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I hold it before me, my thumb sliding over the lines.

It is not lust that I desire. It was not just a hand. You know it well. I am not finished with you. And you are not finished with me.

Come back.

D.V.A

My thumb lingers on the initials, pressing lightly; my breathing becomes irregular, my nostrils flare. My eyes do not detach themselves from the words.

I read them again, and again, and again.

I feel my lips contract. A smile I hadn’t foreseen.

One that must not be there.

I close the letter with care, folding it into quarters, and let it slide inside the drawer. I move toward the table, my bare feet sinking into the rug, and seize a sheet of laid paper.

The nib dips into the thick ink: Why.

I stare at the mark, the black stroke standing out against the immaculate white. I close my eyes, letting my breath descend slowly into my lungs, then reopen them.

With a swift gesture, I lift the paper and bring it close to the flickering flame of the candle. The paper sizzles, an edge curls, smoke rises in thin spirals. I let it fall into the metal saucer beside me; the sheet folds and blazes, emitting a sharp crackle, and the acrid scent of burnt paper invades the air.

It is not possible.

I take a step back, the shirt sliding over my head, the fabric rustling on the floor leaves my bare skin to shiver. Then the trousers, one garment after another.

The cold stings my back, my shoulders, my wrists, yet I do not turn my eyes from the flame devouring the sheet.

It is not the first time someone has lusted after me.

This means nothing.

I turn toward the high window, the cold glass transmits the insistent drumming of the rain. I lift the handle, the wood creaks slightly under the pressure, and the sash gives way.

My bare feet sink into the wet earth; the mud rises between my toes, icy, thick, seizing my heel, my calves, my knees. The rain lashes my shoulders, slides down my back, between my shoulder blades, across my chest. My hair sticks to my neck, to my face. Water enters my mouth, upon my lower lip, sliding down, invading my tongue.

I kneel, my knees sinking into the ground, the mud rising beneath my fingernails, stinging. I bow my head. My bare nape and back suffer the incessant blow of the drops, and I let myself go, allowing the rain to push me downward. I remain like this, palms open in the mud, still, anchored to the earth that soils and soaks me. When I open my eyes, I see nothing but earth and rain.

Only my body remains, feeling every drop.

A cursed body that remembers everything.

Even that which I had believed buried.

The cello is still on the floor, I haven’t picked it up for days.

The body lies on the rug as I left it, its dark flank exposed and the scroll against the wall.

I pass it by.

The room is too tidy, the curtains do not move.

The sheet music is aligned. The side table is clear, save for a glass forgotten halfway, the wine has thickened at the bottom, turning almost black. It has left a purplish ring on the paper beneath it, and the ink of the notes has bled into it, smudging.

I sit down, my body finding no support; heat rises through me in brief, sudden waves, my shirt clinging to my back. My temples pulse obstinately, I run the back of my hand across my forehead.

It is damp.