(This is part of a chapter of a short story in the works...still untitled)
The Indian was apparent in Shilo. Her eyes were too mysterious – too pained and possessed- too buried under generations of shape shifting and dilapidated dwellings to not be of Remy’s.
He knew nothing of her birth. What a travesty…to ignite the fire of life but remain ignorant of your match’ s potency.
Penelope and Remy had met at a bar with sodden floorboards, or at a jazz show with a slumping trumpet player, or on a walk around town when the streetlights blurred and melted into the cascading sunset. He was around for one night only, unattached to anybody and anything beside his fraying knapsack. Within moments of their meeting he felt a savage impulse to press himself into the soft folds of Penelope’s ivory flesh. She was indefinable; a foreign dove to him. He, a harrowing stranger with formidable shoulders and thick, coal black eyebrows.
He brushed his fingers across her whiteness while she drank his shadows and like the miraculous explosion in space between matter and dark matter, a life sprung from it’s recessed cubby into this realm of the living.