Zeus commands the night; fat clouds smother the freckled stars on the sky’s smooth cheek, veiny ribbons of lightning rip across them, and great swells of thunder roll and grumble and roar. The air is salted with electricity. Rain moans heavily against glass panes and walls shiver against tides of wind. It is divine, it is archaic.
Aphrodite in her half slumbered realm thinks of it as a symphony. A poem, a lullaby through memories from sea-birth to womanhood. No -- a canticle then, perhaps. It reaches deeper than any song, winds crooked fingers ‘round heartstrings and digs into bone and marrow like supple earth. She is filled and hallowed in the same moment. Warmed by nostalgia’s sweet kiss and scorned by its bite. She’s left clinging to the seed of a quiet wanting. A small, gnarled pit that grows, blossoms, fruits in her belly and up through her ribs and into her chest.
Lamps and candles alight as she passes them, small feet tapping quickly against lacquered wood. The hearth comes to life; fire spitting and crackling, warming the walls and floors. Sage and rose smoke dance along the lights. Her home is now a temple, small but rich all the same. She summons him with ancient words, familiar and well-worn, eagerly tumbling past her lip and spilling throughout the halls in soft echos.
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