The Isle of Sin and Shadows

by Keri Lake

These days, I try to document as many moments as I can, because I’ve come to learn that the mind is not a reliable enough storyteller of the past. Its memories are an ever-changing landscape that moves and slides with time. Like a viscous liquid that can be poured into any shape.

There isn’t enough sobriety and order in the world that can tamp this woman’s effect on me.

“You’re free to wear whatever you like, catin. Just as I’m free to kill anyone who looks at you in it.”

“I can’t wait to tear this dress off you.”

Chuckling, I needle his ribs, and lightly bite his chest. “So, what’s beautiful, then?” Some of the humor in his eyes fades, and he leans forward to kiss me. “You,” he says, forehead pressed to mine. “Je suis fou de toi.” “What does that mean?” “I’m crazy about you.” “The good crazy, or the bad crazy?” “Both.”

“Your chatte is my heroin.” “Addictions are hard to shake. Trust me. I know.” “They are. I could stay in this bed, getting high on you, for days.”

It’s her. So fucking beautiful, it hurts. La lune. Les étoiles. Ma Céleste. The moon. The stars. My Céleste. It’s here, in this moment, that a ludicrous thought enters my mind, and I realize what lengths I would go to, to keep her. I would take on the most dangerous cartel in Mexico for this woman.

“To be jealous, one would have to assume that you might eventually stray. You’re not going anywhere. And neither am I.” Brushing away her hair, I bury my face into the back of her neck and breathe in the scent of coconut on her skin. “I don’t want anything else, but you, chère,” I say, raggedly. “No one else.”