Meeting Astarte.

For every one billion particles of antimatter there were one billion and one particles of matter. And when the mutual annihilation was complete, one billionth remained.

Albert Einstein

The black onyx of her necklace nestles like a brand, stamped and sealed into the whiteness of her skin. She is everything and nothing I have ever sought. Her eyes flow like water from the lives and stories of people she has not met. She is flawed and flawless, and I want her. She is what I have always wanted, and I have always known it.

It is not lust: I do not want to ravage her or possess what does not belong to me. The sky is hers and hers alone; she will not be caged like a parakeet, trussed and feathered waiting for a glimpse of the sun. No. She will fly far above me, and I will watch in awe and pride, smiling faintly at the sacred memory of her fingers nestled in my hair.

That day we met, me, behind the bar, serving. Her served. I could not speak; my tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of my mouth, my heart dizzy from exertion and afraid for its future.

My heart knew the outcome of our meeting, but even then it was too late. It knew it, and I knew it. Like a prophetess bound by her own prophecy, I went, hand in hand, into a death I knew would come.

Our paths lingered through the dark forest, filled with thorny undergrowth and the constant wail of the possessed, but still, I could hear her voice, calling, deep, soft, nurturing. I would come to you if the prophecy were to be fulfilled. I would come to you because I had no choice, and I would come to you because it was my choice.

We play it out in cards, ace for ace, glance for glance, eyes locked, equally matched but for chance or luck. At first, we speak only in the shadows of a crowd, our words stilted and steeped with meaning, nuances that neither of us fully understands.

The crowd dissipates, and we exchange glances and numbers. Her partner, strong, kind, honest, looks on, smiles. We are friends. And we are, we are just friends. I do not know it yet, not in my mind, but I cannot help but wonder why a number should make me smile, why I should feel so elated. I wait through the night, watch the clouds strangle the rooftops, see the cars pass up the blackened street. I have drunk coffee and smoked hoops in every room of the crumbling semi-detached. I have tidied and cleaned, and there is no sign of relief. And still no sign of her. I lay in bed, fully clothed, waiting for the numbing anaesthesia of sleep.

The beep of my phone splits the room like a siren warning of war. I dare not look at the message, looking is as good as relenting. I am unsure, unsteady on my feet in this territory, it is new and dangerous.

Temptation. I do not reply. I hesitate, fetch my coat, check my face in the mirror, and make my way down the stairs - out into the cold. The wind slaps my face in anger as I stumble inelegantly down the path to the confines of the park, I can see the outline of the slide, and I know that I have made a grave mistake.

She is sat on the swing. We say nothing, I sit next to her and we both swing in tandem, swing for swing, creak for creak, beat for beat.

We must leave before the sun rises.

Her movements slow and she stops, dragging her feet along the dirt.

'We should go.'

I nod, force myself to a standstill. We walk hand in hand through the safety of the park before the sun appears like a searchlight looking for convicts escaped in the shadows of the morning. The sky is stained with blood, it is tinted with guilt and betrayal.

Time oscillates, words suspended by a Thread. A moment, sacred, worshipped like an idol carved and gilded in gold, there can be no resolution. A moment unclaimed before the devastation of a lie or a secret untold: told. A momentary lapse.

We both know that it cannot be. We know and so we fight it. Lines are drawn like borders separating war-torn from war-torn, black from white, country from country. There are evenings, spent in amongst people, we do not speak yet there are words between us, thick and fast and heady with wine, they are words that I have not heard before. I am afraid to meet their eyes. I do not know if this is because I fear deception or truth. I do not know which would be worse.

Days shift into weeks, into months, we can talk now, easily, in the bar, awkwardly surrounded, words mean only dictionary designation, defined and secure, there is no room for manoeuvre. This is the way it must be. The right way.

Outside it is raining, strong and ominous. I know, I already know. I am waiting. The sound of the doorbell does not surprise me. She is crying, her eyes puffed and red, she falls into me and I comfort her in the doorway. They have argued, about me, about her, about money, about the world.

We sit together on my sofa, legs entwined like kittens in a basket. I do not know what to do. I want her with me, next to me. As part of me, surrounding me, I want her but I know that I do not possess what she needs; I cannot give her what she needs. I tell her.

The kiss comes like a leaf falling from a tree, softly, naturally, as if this is the way it was intended. Her lips touch mine, salty with tears and I shift backwards, but it is too late. It is gentle at first, tongue exploring tongue, tracing the lines of our pain. Then, it is too much, months of desperation tumble into one kiss, a simple terrifying violence that I had not suspected. Her teeth bite my lip until there is blood and I can only think of her, with me. Next to me, engulfing me.

We sit in silence, her head rested on my shoulder. I know, this time, I must be the first to speak, I am afraid of what I might say. This cannot be, I know that it cannot be. I am too young to know how to help and she is too old to want me to. We will destroy each other. I tell her again that I cannot give her what she needs. She says she understands. I tell her that her girlfriend loves her, that we cannot do this to her, that we have already gone too far. She says she knows. I ask her if she loves her, the girlfriend. She says she does. I help her to her feet, she kisses me gently on the forehead and whispers, 'Thank you.' I smile, squeeze her hand and tell her that she will be okay. She nods, 'I will.' I hear the front door shut behind her, I do not want to move to lock it.

It is impossible to love truly when your heart is filled only with their pain. I cannot allow myself to feel it. And I will not do it to her.

I cannot stay. I move upstairs to pack my things. I will leave in the morning.

We have gone too far already.

Memory is beginning to infiltrate.