Interlude I
You balance the stone in your palm. More like a pebble, round enough that you consider pocketing it and finding another, but headlights threaten to expose you through the trees, so you flick your wrist back and toss it against the window. Tink, silence. She's not sleeping, or at least she wasn't when you left your house fifteen minutes ago. You should've brought your phone with you if only for the reassurance of her presence on the other line, but worldly possessions were the farthest thing from your mind when you climbed down the side of your house and started running— barefoot, you realize, grass tickling your heels.
The window slides open and she's there, leaning her elbows on the sill, stretching towards you to whisper, "No boombox?"
The fatigue that weighs down her eyes is your fault. The ease of your next exhale is hers.
"Figured I'd serenade you instead," you say.
She rolls her eyes and moves to the side. You hop through the window, landing with a soft thunk. Beside you, photographs litter the wall. Some are years old. Some are from yesterday. Once, you offered to scratch out your own face, saying that it would brighten up the room. She threatened to cut off your hand if you tried.
You plop on the beanbag, finger-combing your hair. She nudges you with her leg, but you're already making room for her. "What happened?" she asks.
You press the heels of your palms into your eyes and see a closed fist and spit flung from a mouth that looks too much like your own. "Tell me a story," you say. "The one about the snake."
"I've told you that story a million times."
"Tell me again."
She leans against you. "Once upon a time, there was—"
"You always start with once upon a time."
"Do you want me to tell the story or not?" She pinches your knee. You sigh into her and close your eyes. "Once upon a time, there was a prince that was beloved by his kingdom. When he would walk the streets, everyone would cheer and hold out their babies for him to kiss. He knew all of his subjects by name. He would help the farmers tend their crops and feed their cows, and he would go to the market and fill their pockets with more gold than what they were selling was worth. He was kind, and he was good. They built statues for him and painted murals and sang songs about his kindness and goodness."
"Is goodness a word?"
"Shut up," she laughs. "The king was jealous of his son. He was angry that nobody sang songs about him even though he’d been the king for years and years. He had a witch put a curse on his son, turning him into an awful, venomous snake. And when the snake-prince slithered down the streets, everyone screamed and ran from him. He went to the farmers to help tend their crops, and they threatened him with shovels and fire. He went to the market, and people tried to stomp on his little snake tail. So he started to slither home, crying snake tears.
"A woman from the market noticed him, and she followed him. But he was scared, so he turned around and bit her. Still, she didn’t leave. She kept following him. ‘Why do you cry?’ she asked, but the snake didn’t speak. He knew that the venom would hurt her, and then she’d have to leave him alone."
"But she didn't," you breathe.
Her hair tickles your neck as she shakes her head. "Eventually, he got to the castle gates and slithered up to his bedroom. When he came out the next day, she was sleeping on the ground where he’d left her.
"She walked with him to help the farmers and protected him from their shovels and fire. She walked with him to the market and kept people from stepping on his little snake tail. And then he slithered home again, but he stopped at the gates. ‘Why do you cry?’ she asked again."
Her head is pressed against the pulse in your neck—in sync with her own, you suspect. Every inhale is met with an exhale. You know the line. "Because I hate being a snake."
"But he didn't know that she loved snakes. She let him slither up her arm," she drags a fingertip along the inside of your forearm, making you shiver, "and carried him to the farms and to the market. Nobody threatened him anymore with shovels or fire, and nobody tried to step on him. He was her snake, and she took care of him forever. The end."
You ask, "Does he ever get turned back into a human?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters."
She wraps her arms around your bicep, settling into you the way a key settles into a lock. "Not to her," she whispers. "She loved him anyway."