Solomon

They have never met, but their eyes meet across a two-lane street and through two store windows. It's Sunday. She's eating lunch at a bakery, and he at a sushi restaurant.

One coincident glance. Two souls, formerly isolated in all ways, are now strung together by a tenuous connection so fleeting that neither person would consciously recall it. Yet, even after the glance between two people has broken, each unknowingly carries a piece of it. Each bears an imprint of the other, an imprint that, if not needed, may never surface again.

It's the following Sunday, noon. She is at the bakery again, and he at the sushi restaurant. Without knowing why, he looks through the window, across the street. And without knowing how, he finds her face again. The meeting of their eyes is not a glance this time, but a gaze, and the look on her face as she turns away is not a mask, but an unbidden grin.

Again, Sunday. Again, noon. But this time, she walks into the sushi restaurant. He is not there. She looks around, scolding herself. Why am I here? she asks. Who was I expecting to see? She turns around to leave, and as she steps out of the door and under the awning, she looks across the street.

There he is, leaning against the doorframe of the bakery, hands in his pockets. She dares to look at his face and sees that his eyes are waiting for hers. She blushes and looks away. She looks back at him. He tilts his head to the side, smiles, shrugs.

He watches her step out from the shadow of the awning and into the uninhibited sun. She looks to the nearest crosswalk, and he understands. With shy, sauntering steps, they travel parallel paths to the street corner.

Don't go to her, he says to himself. You know this cannot end well.

When the sign allows, she crosses the street. He stays.

She speaks first. "You like pastries?"

"To be honest with you, not especially," he says with a guilty smile.

"What a coincidence." Her tone is playful.

He's puzzled; "You...don't like pastries, either?"

"No, it's just that I don't like sushi," she smiles.

He laughs, wondering if he understood her humor correctly and hoping it was appropriate to laugh.

"Dare I ask why you were there, then?" he asks.

"I daresay the same reason you were there," she indicates the bakery.

"My name is Alena," she says, extending her hand.

He takes it in both of his hands. "Alena," he repeats. Her heart flutters.

"I'm Solomon."

~

They agree on an Indian restaurant. He learns that she is an astronomy Ph.D. candidate. She learns that he is a museum curator. Each of them is sufficiently obsessed with their field—and the other, sufficiently interested in listening—that the rest of the afternoon passes without their awareness.

He checks the time on his phone.

"Oh, my, I didn't realize—it's so late already."

"I'm sorry for keeping you," she says, standing up. "We should do this again!"

He avoids her eyes, hopes she won't notice his hesitation.

"Only if you want to," she says. She noticed.

"I do," he says. "I've never asked for a girl's number before."

"First time for everything," she says cheerfully.

She takes his phone to input her number.

"Whoa, is this a sunset clock?" she asks.

"Yes," he says, watching her reaction carefully.

"Awesome." She types in her number and saves the contact. "This is a new phone?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"You have no other contacts!"

"Ah, yes, I just—I tend to keep to myself."

"So you've never asked for anyone's number before," she teases.

"First time for everything," he says.

That night, she turns the notification volume up on her phone. Keeps it on the table at dinner so she can see if it flashes. Checks it a few times before putting it on her night stand. No messages.

No messages the next day in the lab, either. Or that night, or the next few days. By Friday, Alena has convinced herself that he simply wasn't interested, that the happiness in the hours of talking and laughing last weekend was imagined.

~

During her lunch hour on her last workday of the week, her phone rings. She jumps, because she had forgotten that she turned it that loud. She looks at the screen; unknown number. She waits for a few too-rapid heartbeats, then answers it.

"Hello?"

"Alena," says his resonant voice. So low, and so close to her ear.

"Oh, Solomon! I mean—is this—may I ask who's calling?" She curses herself in her mind.

"It's Solomon," he says.

"Hi, Solomon!" Stop talking too loudly, Alena, she scolds herself.

"We're opening a new exhibit tomorrow," he says. "Would you like to go?"

The next morning, they are in his museum. He has spent nearly as many hours planning this tour for her as the tour will take. Alena does not understand art, but as she listens to Solomon, she realizes that understanding is not the point of art.

They stand before a painting, side by side. She looks at his hand, wonders if he would mind if she held it. She moves closer to him, but in the same moment, he moves closer to the painting.

After the length of several quiet breaths, he says, "When I see a painting like this, I wonder...who is this artist?"

She looks at the plaque and reads aloud the artist's name, teasingly.

He chuckles softly. She decides it's a victory for her sense of humor. "No, I mean—Alena, who are you?"

"I'm a human being. I'm a scientist. I'm a tiny speck of nothing in a giant universe of everything."

He looks at her kindly and takes her hand, as if to discourage her from thinking that she is nothing.

"Who are you, Sol?" she retorts playfully. "Has anyone ever called you Sol before?"

He leans toward her conspiratorially. "First time for everything," he says. He skims his thumb over the flats of her fingernails.

He turns back to the painting. "The person who painted this—was it the same person they were as they were growing up? Or the same person they were when they first learned betrayal, or when they witnessed another person's suffering, or when they breathed the winter's air instead of the summer's?"

She simply listened, content to hear is voice and hold his hand.

"When an artist paints a piece as dark as this, do they fear judgment? Do they have to suppress a part of themselves, or is it really the truest side of themselves that they're showing?

Who are we, really? What would you have to take away from a person before they are no longer themselves?"

~

It's late afternoon of the next day, Sunday. They're on the edge of the forested foothills at the fringe of the city. She wants to show him something. Alena leads him into the foothills, away from the compounded sounds of the city. Solomon looks to the sky, knowing that the closer the sun is to the horizon, the farther he should be from her.

"Here we are!" she says. They stand before a lofted building, a cylinder capped with a half dome.

"It's...an observatory." His voice is quiet, guarded.

"It's my favorite place in the world! Or rather, my favorite place to escape the world."

She goes forward, pulling his hand, but he has stopped. "I can't stay."

"Why not?" She feels a little hurt. She has never taken anyone else here before.

"We should go back before dark."

"But that's the point," she smiles. "What, are you afraid of the dark?"

He looks at her seriously. Yes, he thinks.

"Oh, all right, but let me at least show you the inside."

She pulls him up a flight of stairs on the outside of the building. At the top is a door, and inside is a spacious round room, so unlike the flat walls he's used to decorating in the museum. When the door closes, it is completely sealed off from the outside; the only light comes from the numerous computer monitors at desks around the perimeter of the room. In the center of the room perches an enormous telescope, its angled arm disappearing into the darkness near the ceiling.

She leads him around the room, explaining the technology and what she knows of the universe. This tour is full of unrequested answers, not unanswerable questions. He gets lost in the white glow on her expressive hands, her swishing dress, her swaying hair. Soon, she is suddenly closer than he realizes. He can see nothing but the darkness of her eyes. She is touching his wrist, his shoulder. He closes his eyes, hoping that she will not kiss him, and hoping that she will. When she kisses him, presses her soft and tilted lips to his, he cannot help but return their caress.

She leans back, smiling, not wanting to ruin the sanctity of their first kiss. Now she is ready to show him the sky. She presses a lever on the wall. A panel in the ceiling slides back to reveal a wide slit, through which the telescope unblinkingly gazes.

As the chasm opens, the gold light of sunset light fills the room. Solomon watches the light fill her face and catch in her eyes. Then, he realizes.

He rips his phone out of his pocket and checks it hurriedly. The sun is about to set. "I have to go."

He runs to the door, away from her, as far away from her as he can. He flies down the stairs. As he reaches the last step, he looks up. There, he sees the last sliver of sun sink below the black horizon.

He stops. He slowly straightens up. Slowly turns around to see her rushing down the stairs. When she sees that he has stopped, she slows, too.

He raises his arm and extends his hand, palm up, fingers commanding. "Alena."

She takes another step down, reaches for his hand uncertainly. He snatches it suddenly, pulls her down to him. She cries out in surprise and falls into his arms. He holds her firmly, her back to his chest.

When she catches her breath, she says, "What are you doing?" Her tone is playful, trying to hide her surprise.

"I'm raping you."

Fear shoots through her in sparks and chills. It pervades her, invades her.

After a beat, she says, "Ha, ha. Very funny."

"Funny, you say?" His tone is amused and challenging.

"Is this funny?" he says as he rips open the back of her dress. She gasps.

"Is this?" He wrenches down the front of her dress, and she suppresses a yelp.

"No, no, it's not." Her voice is weak. She knows she should fight or run, but she cannot move except to tremble.

"Oh, yes, it is," he chuckles. His lips brush against her neck as he speaks. "Your favorite place in the world is about to become my favorite place: the place I destroyed my hope by ruining you." He licks her neck—she squirms—then bites it slowly—she nearly sobs.

He partly drags her and partly carries her up the stairs, into the dusk-lit room. If she could name the sound of despair, it would be the sound of the door closing behind them.

She could not think clearly, but his words echoed in her mind. She dared to ask for explanation: "Destroyed...your hope?"

"Mmhm," he purrs. When they reach the base of the telescope, he turns her around. Forces her onto her knees. Pushes her face-up onto the floor. Presses himself on top of her.

Tears start to form in her wide eyes. "I don't—"

"Understand, little girl," he says, gripping her chin and forcing her to look at him, "that hope is the cruelest of evils." As if the evil he was committing was the lesser.

"What, you think I was just pretending to love you?"

He stiffens at the word "love." So does she; she did not mean to admit to herself that she loves him. Or, loved him.

"You can't love me," he says.

"Why not?" she says defiantly, hypothetically, as if it mattered anymore.

"Simple, darling. Because you can't know me." He presses his hand along the bare skin of her stomach, sliding lower and lower. She writhes and tries to push it away, but he is relentless.

There is now nothing between his finger and her vulva. His finger slides and starts to press into her. With renewed energy from panic, she whines and tries to scramble away. She even gets partway up before he pins her back down, his hands conquering hers.

"Have you been touched there before?"

She shakes her head shamefully.

"First time for everything." He grins and skims his thumb over her fingernails. This familiar gesture disturbs her more than anything he has done so far.

He pushes her hands over her head. He yanks at a power cord at the base of the telescope. One end comes free of the wall. He uses the cord to bind her shaking wrists.

He takes off his clothes, then tears off what's left of her clothes. She gasps. The floor is so cold against her blushing skin.

He leans against her. He runs his tongue over her lips. She whimpers, closes her eyes, turns her face away. "I can taste your fear."

He traces his finger along the lips of her entrance. She tries to twist away. "And, I can feel your desire."

He holds his wet fingers before him, and with his other hand holds her face so that she can't look away as he licks them slowly.

He whispers, "No one is going to save you."

He kisses her furiously, crushing her lips with his. She gasps, not meaning to but unable to stop herself, and his tongue ravages her open mouth.

He bites her lip as he penetrates her.

She screams and sobs, her hope deserting her in the form of tears.

He slowly pulls out of her. Their lips separate.

"Solomon, please," she whimpers hopelessly.

He replies only by thrusting into her again, slowly, deeply. She moans. She is filled with injustice, pain, and the shameful pang of pleasure.

She now seeks his kiss, as if it will somehow justify this act of rage, but he refuses her parted lips. "Kiss me, Solomon," she begs, but he will not kiss her.

He continues his slow, torturous thrusts, eroding her. Her pleas turn to wordless moans. Her back arches up, to bring him closer and to push him away.

She bursts, falling apart, coming undone. As she cries out, he captures her mouth in a selfish kiss, and as she collapses under him, he kisses up her tears.

She is spent, but he is not. He unties her wrists and carries her listless body to a desk. He lies her on her back and kneels before her knees.

He starts to separate her legs. His hands slide leisurely along her knees and thighs. She is disoriented and weak, but when she realizes what is happening, she tries to escape. But she has nowhere to go, and he is will not be denied.

She hugs her arms to her chest, trying to cover what nakedness she can.

"No, naughty girl. Uncover yourself."

When she hesitates, he pinches the inside of her thigh. She yelps and quickly puts her arms to her sides.

He slides his hands up her legs, up the sides of her waist, to her breasts. They rise and fall with her uneven breath.

He brushes his fingers over her nipples. The more she squirms, the harder he kneads them, until soon he is pinching them mercilessly and she is begging him to stop.

At a time of his own choosing, he releases her stinging breasts and trails his hands back down to her hips.

He slides his teeth along her thighs. Then, ever so lightly, he kisses the lips at her entrance. She whimpers and bucks desperately away from him, but the hands at her hips pin her down.

"I love making you moan," he rasps.

Her hands push at his, trying to free her hips from his painful grip.

He blows air onto her vulva. He licks her. He caresses her with the textures of his mouth—soft, cold, wet, sharp. She struggles and moans. She cannot take any more; she comes apart again, gasping, shivering.

He does not allow her a moment to recover before he pulls her up. The blood rushes from her head. She can barely speak. Her words are almost a whisper: "Solomon, let me go."

He lifts her and crushes her against a wall. Her head falls forward onto his shoulder.

He seizes her hair. His hand goes down; her chin goes up.

He bites her neck, and somehow, she still has enough energy to whimper.

"You belong to me."

He penetrates her again. She yelps and holds his shoulders.

He slams into her violently and repeatedly, each time thrusting faster and harder.

He growls into her ear. "Come for me, little girl."

She cannot help but do so. He bites her ear as he surges into her.

He drops her to her feet and walks away.

~

The sun surfaces, Monday. Solomon wakes.

The memories of the night jolt him, stab him. He launches himself to his feet and looks around. He sees her asleep, in a strip of sunlight. She is curled up, clinging her bloodied legs to her torn dress.

Oh, no, he thinks.

He walks over to stand above her.

"No, no!" He falls to his knees before her, enraged at himself. He holds his head in his white-knuckled fists.

Alena wakes. In her eyes, fear quickly replaces the daze of sleep. She shifts weakly away from him.

"Alena, please—it's me." His voice is imploring, remorseful.

He starts to come closer. She doesn't move.

He is now close enough to touch her. "My Alena," he sighs. He pulls her into his arms, hugs her, begins to sob into her hair. When she feels the gentleness of his touch, she relaxes and allows herself to cry.

"I'm so sorry. I should have told you—I should have left you—I should have looked away from you the moment I first saw you!" He breaks away from her.

"Left me? You don't...want me?"

"I have never wanted anything more, and for that reason I should not have let myself near you."

"Solomon, please help me understand."

He pauses, trying to form words for something he has never told anyone.

"I have always lived alone."

"Why?"

"I cannot afford to be part of someone else's life."

She decides not to interrupt. He pauses again, thinks, then continues. "Just as the artist cannot choose who she is when she paints, so must I struggle to hold onto my identity.

When the sun leaves the sky, a part of me leaves me."

"So, you become a different person?"

"No, that's not quite it. I can still remember what I did during the day, who I was in the day, but I make different choices. I want different things.

And during the day, I can remember what I did at night—" He breaks off, starting to become angry again.

She reaches out to embrace him.

"No!" he snaps. "I don't deserve to live, let alone be comforted by your touch." He turns away.

Alena attempts to untangle her thoughts. Never had she feared more for her life. Yet, never had she witnessed the exposition of a soul the way that Solomon bared his to her. His two sides are alike in their sincerity, and they are separated by their choices. What choice would be hers? What choice would be right?

He turns to look over his shoulder at her with pleading eyes. "Run from me, Alena."

Smoothly and without hesitation, she reaches out, touches his spine, folds him into her embrace. She holds him until his tears dry, all the while running his name through her mind. Solomon, soul of man, sun or moon.