Nectar

         I see him. Every day, when I watch him, I pity him for his state. I ache for him more and more as I become enchanted by his chivalrous actions, his candid words, and his feverish love. Sadly, he will never realize how each are wasted on her.
         He speaks sweetly of her (overrated) beauty. Of how her eyes could send a thousand minds aflame and have each return untouched by the flames, for the love of her. Of how a single touch would give a man the power to burn the darkest forest; of how a kiss would send the man through his previous action. He pours his soul, his passionate, moving soul, into a chalice of hope only to have his nectar coolly disposed and the goblet brutally melted.
         I can remember imagining, when I was young, how words of such honest love could wind themselves around my body. How they could ring out around me in the most still of nights and warm me as I slept inebriated with the liquor of such emotion. How they would fill my mouth with better nectar than even the gods knew. Such dreams as those allowed me to live in a delusion.
         However, I had an indirect inspiration for such words. Hadrian. He was the idol of every woman, and enemy of any man. He was entrancing, wanted, and handsome - he knew all he was considered and flaunted it. He could have had every woman in the village if he so chose.
         Of course, I was the only woman who despised him.
         He would walk into the market every morning, and smirk insolently at the stares. He swam in a sea of arrogance; the women's admiration created. He would peruse every stall in the souk not to see, but to be seen. His audacity in manner was sickening.
         He always came to my stall last. I ran the apothecary for my parents, and it was small, but familiar. I loved the way that the scent of drying herbs both burned and calmed as I entered. I also loved watching Hadrian's eyes water as he sauntered in, dripping putrescent over-confidence.
         "Good morning," he always paused for dramatic effect, "Rose."
I never bothered looking up at him, as he towered above me. "My name is 'Rose-Hazel,' if you don't mind, and good morning to you too, Hadrian." I always corrected; he always ignored.
         He promenaded about the stall, and then approached me once all of the customers had left.
         "What have you got for me today, Rose?"
         "I hope that is not affection - it is wasted. And I have nothing more than what you see on the shelves." I restocked anything that was missing as he looked on. How I hated his attention!
         I could always hear him as he walked away, "You're not on the shelf."
         Every time I saw him, he made hands chill.
         A cold morning, late in autumn, he entered. It was particularly quiet, and the eerie stillness blew a frost throughout the village. We performed the usual greetings, but there was something strange in his voice; anxious tension weeping for release.
         "Your hands, Rose..." his warm fingers trailed gently and adeptly down my palm, and wound around my wrist before his hand covered mine. "They're so cold." I could feel him breathing on my neck, as he was to my back. He wrapped his muscular, serpentine arm around my waist, pinning my back to his chest. "You're so cold."
I swallowed roughly. "Yes," I choked, "I suppose they are." He gingerly slid up to my neck. "I am."
         "Your neck is cold too, Rose..." I could only nod to him. I was angrily fighting in my head, but my body didn't resist anything.
         I ran that night. I ran far into the forest, so that I would never have to see Hadrian's smile again, or feel his persuasive arms. I figured there was no other solution. Years passed quietly, with me dreaming of how life should have been - how his 'love' should have been.
         I sat in this tree thinking of every other maiden. Thinking about the words they heard, and how sweet the ambrosia must have been for their ears. It made me hostile towards them. I hated their luck. I hated everything about life, but I still had something worth seeing grow.
         I sit here now, watching my son being refused, but wishing that Hadrian had been refused in such a manner. I was refused those words; He is refused those feelings, no matter how shallow. It seems we are both refused nectar for now, but I only wish that he will find it eventually, and naturally, most unlike the ambrosia I've mixed for myself watching him.