One. Breathe it in, let it prickle at your lungs before holding it still, the sharky pines of air scratchy inside you. Two. Let it all out, vomit out the murky nectar that pollutes your daily life- just let it out. Maria likes to put her hand on my heart while I do this, her big eyes steady, unblinking, and ever so sharp as she monitors the drumming of my organ.
She’d slide her hand under my dress while listening at times, subconsciously, of course.
Ah, she’d take any chance to remember him, be it through my trauma-induced panic attacks or our similar features; whatever brings her to a point of reminiscence completely drowns her; eyes hazy with visions of my father—her beloved.
I don’t protest when she does; well, I don’t move at all. I hold back my whimpers and try my hardest not to shiver in hopes of trapping her in this trance.
“More, more, could you do it more?” ---These thoughts scream, blaring like sirens, and I close my eyes shut, dreaming, hopeful—yearning for her. She mutters out his name before her eyes pop back into life, and she quickly draws her bony hand back.
“My apologies, mistress.”