They asked me where I kept the vial. I raised my eyes.
"Vile stains the hearts of man. I have no jurisdiction over it."
They asked again, berated again. The lump in my pocket mirrored the lumps in their throats, the apples that stain them forever for their mistake of following the temptress, of heeding the frail voice of woman.They repressed her for it, but she is not the one chastised with each swallow. She is not the one with the bitter token.
I stepped back, my fabrics swaying against my frame, the vial brushing my rib.
"She doesn't have it." He spoke in languor his dark eyes casting shadows on my own. The others watched him watching me.
They questioned him how he could know. Phantom eyes tell phantom lies, truth is but a smoke we sift.
"I can't." He answered coolly, his eyes tracing my silhouette.
I let him look, exposed and hidden in my skirts. He would see what he wanted. It wouldn't be the vial.
It would be a woman. All men see is what they lost, where they have fallen from, who brought them here in flesh and sin. Woman, keeper of heart and life. Woman, responsible for the creation and the fall.
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