by Frances Gapper

His love for Penelope seemed to depend greatly on distance and self-
idealisation. I tried to distance myself when he talked about her. Not
feeling pain is a trick of the mind, just like making somebody fall in
love with you, a minor magic. He praised her skills, while blaming my
laziness; he asked why I just sat around all day. Familiarity made us
strangers to each other, I can see that now.

He expected me to entertain him; it was something women just did. I’d
been alone a long time and maybe lacked conversational skills. He knew
the names of all the plants, despite this island having its own unique
microclimate. He took cuttings. He’d invented a special jar, to
transport them safely back home to Ithaca.

When we made love, I forgot my name, my immortality and hence the need
for caution. He, my friend, once had a similar experience, while
crouched among the giant sheep. Having told the Cyclops he was Nobody,
he then forgot his own name for a while. The gods always make the best
jokes.


Frances Gapper writes very short stories and pretend poems. These have appeared in Wigleaf, Pretext, Brand, other places.