Mea Tulpa
Robin T. Quackenbush
Maya’s hands slid over the red, wet clay from the banks of the Apalachicola River and a man grew under her palms’ caress. Pouring all her love, all her need and intent into his form, she worked through the night, and when morning came she slept at his feet while he dried in the sun.
She woke mid-morning and stood to admire him: rock-hard abs, cleft chin, eyes like agates. Flawless. On a slip of paper she wrote Live and Love me, then placed the note in his mouth.
He smiled at her, but otherwise did not move, so she scrawled another command and added it to the first. His voice, deep and round like boulders, had a hint of southern drawl. “I love you, Maya.”
He fixed the leaky faucet and the squeaky door, clapped when she sang, held her in the night, and sai
