Elegantly Bound

Celia was tired. The spring air was no longer fresh to her; it felt as heavy and oppressive as the heat of summer. Everything around her was annoying and offered her little joy: the birds were too loud, the buzzing of the bees around the flowers too constant. Not even out in the warmth of the day could she hope to find solace from her ennui.

She sighed and picked her tea cup up from its saucer, idly swirling the liquid left in it and watching its movement with languid eyes. The dregs of green tea flitted from one end of the bottom to the other as she made slow, controlled motions with her wrist to rotate them around. The sun pierced straight through the drink and illuminated the white porcelain; the cup almost became transparent as she twirled it through the light.

Yes, she thought again, she was very tired. She felt as though the day were only reinforcing how slowly time was passing, and how heavy she felt from it all. Her shoulders felt weighed down, as if Atlas had passed his burden onto her.
Yet she didn’t have the world. She had nothing. She didn’t want to think about why she was so tired, but the caffeine and the sun were allowing her busy mind to wander, although it wandered at the pace of molasses. All of time was dripping molasses – that, or it was frozen.

Nothing diverted her attention as well as she would have liked. Poetry made her cry and sink into self-reflection, music made her heart ache with a quickness that felt like an assault, and any learning reminded her she had no one to share joy and enthusiasm with.

A slight breeze played with her blonde curls, and her eyes stung with a sensitivity that she had never noticed before – or perhaps had never had. She would have written these anxieties down, but the process of thinking them through pained her enough. She felt sudden moisture at the corner of an eye and blinked fiercely, refusing to give in to what was plaguing her with physical ache and mental pain.

Instead, she drank the rest of her cup and let it remain empty in her hand to rest on her crossed legs. She could tell it was nearing summer rather quickly this year (so time did pass), and that heat that in previous springs had so welcome was now a nuisance. Her eyes grew heavy as the breeze died, and the sun beat down on every facet of that tiring day and against her will, as one does when one aches to remain awake for the course of a night and the body relents, Celia’s eyes forced close and her body surrendered her mind to the power of sleep.

The birds remained loud and cheery, and though the breeze never again picked up, Celia’s cup tumbled out of her hand and onto the grass. The dregs and last drops of tea ran down along the sides of the cup and into the earth, and Celia never stirred.

—

Hours later, she awoke, still reclined in the yard, but with a full cup of tea in her hands. The cup was no longer white porcelain, but metal, with intricate inlaid designs around to protect the holder from the heat of the drink.

She blinked slowly, and as she set her cup down and stretched her arms out with a yawn, her wrists jangled as if she were in chains. Surprised, she looked down the length of one arm and saw at the end of it multiple bracelets, all of similar intricate design to the cup and fashioned of brass. She was mystified: she was in the same place on the grass, and the sun still beat down, though it was a little lower in the sky now (so time did pass). Who had come by and slipped these on her wrists?
“I’m glad to see you finally awake, my love,” a male voice calmly remarked and she started, turning her head back to see the speaker. He was lounging, same as she, though they were not in chairs as she had been previously, but on a large throw populated by luxe cushions.

He smiled as she attempted to compose herself from her bewilderment, and came to rest his hand on hers that was supporting her reclined position. She felt as if that arm rooting her in place would collapse any minute. Perhaps Atlas had given her the earth, and in sleep she had transfigured it into a gift and not a burden.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” was the first coherent sentence she could form, and he laughed, long and rich and in tones she hadn’t heard in what seemed an eternity. Now that her initial shock was passing, she gently moved her fingertips, and felt his overtop respond in kind. She marveled at the feeling, so customary but so long absent. She hazarded a shy look towards him, and found that same man she had loved for years gazing at her with a bemused expression. His eyes, such a rich brown and yet so full of lightness, sparkled in joy and amusement. His lips smiled unevenly, one side higher than the other as he was prone to do when his smiles were spontaneous. His hair was a little unruly, but it still had that same captivating ability to capture the sun and play blonde and red highlights throughout the thick mass of chestnut locks.

How much she missed the ability to even gaze at him in person! Feeling his lips on hers hadn’t yet occurred to her, but as he moved closer to her now she recognized that look in his eyes she’d seen many times. This time the fervency was rampant; he took on the desperate visage of one who had been denied of food for months. His starved countenance caused her to realize just how hungry she had been for him – for all of him, his presence, his light touch he now laid on her arm, his soft lips complying with hers to create a mutual pleasure that became indescribable as it intensified –

“Here,” he said against her lips, and began to lift her to her feet, “come inside.” He led her through a large archway behind them and over to a window laced over with wrought-iron. He guided her eyes to what she thought was the impending sunset, but he reached out and lifted her necklace from her chest, holding it up to the window as best he could. There, in the centre of the lattice-work, was a circular pattern identical to that of her necklace, only larger and formed not of gold but of black iron, backlit by the changing blue and orange sky.

“Where are we?” she whispered, astounded and too anticipatory to raise her voice.

He smiled that same bemused smile and answered simply, “I said I was glad you woke up, yes? You’re where you’ve wanted to be for a very long time.”

She smiled, although she was still mystified. He took hold of her cheek and leaned down to kiss her, but she stopped him with a slight turn of her head. “I’m with you, but you’ve been away for so long; and I’m not where I usually am, so where is this?”

“Exactly,” he grinned and knew he was maddening her, but he didn’t want to reach the part where it had to end. She was where she had craved to be, in the moment when the sun had sunk her into an involuntary rest, and he wanted her to savour it all she could before she sank back into being perpetually tired.

“Here,” he said again, and drew her aside with a look that she would rather respond to than his words; she allowed herself to surrender to the moment in time and as time did pass, she reached her arms around his neck and drew closer to him as the oppressive sun gave way to the cool night air of spring.


Hours later, she awoke to that same beating sun almost set, and an empty tea cup overturned in the grass. She sighed both with an air of contentedness but also with an air of one who knows she must be tired for some time longer, that this dream had only offered her momentary relief. She arose, picked up her cup with wrists that were now silenced, and straightened with the same heaviness sinking on her shoulders, as well as a stinging awareness of that one undeniable truth: that time does pass.