“What about?”
“You and Alcaeus—you are so troubled for him.”
“Then you have seen him?”
“Yesterday. And I’m afraid.”
“Why?”
“Because what is there left for him—and you?”
“I can’t answer you, Atthis. Time answers such questions.”
I sense my old loneliness, a loneliness that was distorted like a ship’s rib, tossed on the beach, warped because of bad luck.
“His arms have been injured, too,” Atthis said.
“They will get better, in time...” And I heard time in the receding wave and felt it in her ringlets and in her hands.