The sand was warm beneath their feet, and the water, though cool, reflected the heat from the day’s sun. They walked on the beach, late at night. The moon was setting, the stars were out. A white smudge, the bands of the milky way, stretched across the sky. Stars were in abundance, and the brighter ones, the ones that reflected the stories of past civilizations, were easy to spot.
One, in particular, stood out in the southern summer sky. Shaped like a “T”, the top facing the west, the tail bent down to the sea. Neither knew the name of the constellation, but both marveled in its perfection. Clearly, the gods had crafted a scorpion in the sky.
He told her of the stars, of his favorite sculpture in the sky. Orion. The hunter, which dominated the winter sky, at the same spot that impressed them now, and with which he had always felt a kinship.
He told her the story of Pygmalian and Galeta. Of his strange connection. How he had met the one before her. How he had molded her. How she had left him for another. How he had died once before.
That night, they made love, feeling the breeze from the ocean, hearing the waves break only yards away from their porch. Rising and falling, breathing, feeling each other’s breath across their faces, necks, feeling the release as it rushed past their ears, emptying from him into her. The heat of their passion, evident to the other. Sweat mingling, as their passion ebbed and flowed like the waves outside. How she rolled into him and embraced him as he slept.
Days later, they were back in their worlds. Mexico had been a fantasy, perfect in its illusions. It had been only them. After a matter of days, the real world intruded. She was back with “him” and he was alone. He no longer seemed to exist, and she no longer returned his calls. He woke up alone, while she awoke with “him”.
Sitting outside, he looked at the stars. In the south, he saw it. The “T”. The story unknown. He had to know. He looked. Scorpius. The slayer of Orion. Ironically, history had found a way to repeat itself; or perhaps, mythology had come true. For as he sat beneath the stars, knowing she was with another, he knew that once again, his heart had been slain.
One, in particular, stood out in the southern summer sky. Shaped like a “T”, the top facing the west, the tail bent down to the sea. Neither knew the name of the constellation, but both marveled in its perfection. Clearly, the gods had crafted a scorpion in the sky.
He told her of the stars, of his favorite sculpture in the sky. Orion. The hunter, which dominated the winter sky, at the same spot that impressed them now, and with which he had always felt a kinship.
He told her the story of Pygmalian and Galeta. Of his strange connection. How he had met the one before her. How he had molded her. How she had left him for another. How he had died once before.
That night, they made love, feeling the breeze from the ocean, hearing the waves break only yards away from their porch. Rising and falling, breathing, feeling each other’s breath across their faces, necks, feeling the release as it rushed past their ears, emptying from him into her. The heat of their passion, evident to the other. Sweat mingling, as their passion ebbed and flowed like the waves outside. How she rolled into him and embraced him as he slept.
Days later, they were back in their worlds. Mexico had been a fantasy, perfect in its illusions. It had been only them. After a matter of days, the real world intruded. She was back with “him” and he was alone. He no longer seemed to exist, and she no longer returned his calls. He woke up alone, while she awoke with “him”.
Sitting outside, he looked at the stars. In the south, he saw it. The “T”. The story unknown. He had to know. He looked. Scorpius. The slayer of Orion. Ironically, history had found a way to repeat itself; or perhaps, mythology had come true. For as he sat beneath the stars, knowing she was with another, he knew that once again, his heart had been slain.
