The Safekeep

by Yael van der Wouden

She was not wanted. That was the long and the short of it: she had learned want, briefly and hungrily. A span of a day, two days. She had learned the shape of it, the quick taste of it. She had reached out, foolishly, and she was not wanted in return.

How quickly did the belly of despair turn itself over into hope, the give of the skin of overripe fruit.

“Who are you?” She said, “Have you always been like this? Have you just been waiting to happen?”

She had held a pear in her hand and she had eaten it skin and all. She had eaten the stem and she had eaten its seeds and she had eaten its core, and the hunger still sat in her like an open maw. She thought: I can hold you and find that I still miss your body. She thought: I can listen to you speak and still miss the sound of your voice.