She passed through the haunted grove in peace. This is why she does not get into trouble. She is that very ghost that haunts the grove. This is how she can get in people's beds as well.
My skirt was too tight that I could barely press the pedals while driving. I met Georgios in the darkness outside of Kato Zakros, by a fountain on the road. I wanted to see if he could slay the dragon. I told him why I find myself in Kato Zakros and delivered the usual song around katzikia.
He wanted to kiss me, I dodged it. We kept on talking and he told me about spearfishing. There is nothing hotter for me than a man predating wild creatures, eating their flesh as the consecration of the hunt, as if bearing tribute to the very animal, which so survives. This is a weakness of mine and I do not care to admit it. After all, he was my encounter of the day, the voice of Cypris for a day, and we skipped the music festival. Georgios was not the prince of the lilies, he was the prince of the platanos of Zakros. He brought me to this isolated garden of the village as if drawn from fairy tales, with only the sound of the clangorous water flowing ceaselessly around us, water from the mountains. I knelt down and drank from the fresh rivulet. Then we sat by the century old venerable tree, while the moon was spying on us from between the branches. He said my skin is very soft. I touched it myself: strange but it was true, skin reborn. He touched my hair shaped by the salt. I told him that I forgot about the existence of soap. For hours we laughed and talked. He said that he knows it all about hair and skin, in spite of being a villager. He told me his story, about his life, the languages he speaks. I got rid of my skirt and just sat on the ground. I kissed him tenderly, and when he told me he does never close his eyes when he kisses I kissed him another time. Past two o’clock a man on his motorcycle broke the silence. Hey paidià, he said and sped away. This man, Georgios said, comes here to plant his olives in the night.
We went to his grandparents’ place with a pack of keys, and we started testing them all one after the other. There were five doors and seven keys. No keys worked, so he broke in from a window. You bet my laughter must have perforated all the villagers’ cochleas at four in the morning, I wonder taking what shape in their dreams. He got new packs of keys, and we kept testing them in every lock. I managed to open the bathroom. Typical old Cretan house, where every room is autonomous, all rooms face an open yard. Typical minoan architecture, if you go to Kommos.
We slept in different rooms, in his grandparents’ house. Before getting to bed though he pushed me into the bathtub. The cold water felt so warm. I confessed two of my deepest desires from the innermost recesses of my soul as he stared at the water flowing down. I could speak my mind, but not open my legs.
In reply he began washing my hair, rubbing lotions on my wild scalp.
In the morning we bade farewell. I went to Xerocampos, at last bled and stained a chair.
Wrote that letter and burnt it.
I headed to a cave and wept. Nevermore sad, but full of love.
I can only love, but my love is often inaccessible to others and to myself. Yet I feel my love is here, comes from within like blood which purifies the past and welcomes a new dawn.