I told them about the harp I had invented, admiring them as I talked, hair, shoulders, arms...enjoying each girl. I realized they were especially mine. No one else would have such an opportunity to influence them.
We listened while Anaktoria described her visit, her baby sister, the sailor who died on the wharf, the arrival of an Ethiopian girl, slave for a merchant. She talked as I had taught her, gestures well timed, head poised. She has lost her island mannerisms, such as gulping impulsively and biting off chunks of food.
Brushing aside her shoulder-length hair, blue eyes a little wild, Telesippa gossiped about her dressmaker, “the best in Athens,” whose “tattling is incessant.”
Libus steered the conversation to something sound and Atthis carried on: yes, no doubt, teaching helps.
Later, we sat on our terrace and passed around sweets and nuts and Libus joked, sultry jokes of the last generation, wanting to impress the girls.
Old tiles underfoot...youth around me...the thick walls of my house above the sea... I relaxed until someone mentioned Phaon and I saw him working on his boat, hands stained with oakum, knees rough from the planking.
“Phaon—I say good night to my girls. You’ll be with me, soon. Soon, I’ll be buried under your mouth.”
Tomorrow, we meet after the games on the field.
I’ll see him there, legs flashing, discus flying, his spear digging its hole. I’ll see him rock with laughter and splash himself clean.
P