Ch. 2

Pleasure as opposed to happiness.

I could swear, the ground molded to her every footstep. She was Persephone, flowers blooming in her wake. The landscape, dotted with small and large sculptures, was now patterned with flowers.

She turner her head, looking to me for answers. "Then why is it so carefully structured?"

The piece before her was called "An Anarchist House." It was neatly built, red shingle roof, white aluminum exterior, three windows and a door. Smaller than an average house, but large enough for a person or two to fit into. It was neat, pretty, and undeniably average.

"The anarchist symbol is an 'a' inside an 'o', meaning anarchy is order. In truth, there can be no real anarchy, because government is just an escalated form of the natural hierarchy. Anarchy is well put together. It is organized and intricately designed."

Peony lips pressed together, eyes rolled back in feigned thought.

"How delightfully horrifying," was her honeyed response. I drew nearer to her, letting the side of my canvas bag touch the bare skin of her foot as I placed it on the ground between us. She stepped closer to the little door, letting one knee trace the tips of the cut grass, as if genuflecting before an altar. She looked up at the small house, then back at me, with a Mona Lisa expression. I stared down at her with reverence.

Without thinking, my hand touched her shoulder, and she shivered, if but briefly. Clasping one hand over mine, a hot, burning hand, she stood up, and looked down towards me.

Being considerably taller and having a considerably more egotistical personality than most people I knew, I wasn't used to being looked down upon. But as she looked down at me, her expression was like that of someone looking up.

"What have your eyes seen," she muttered, staring through my skull.

"More than I'd like to admit."

Gently, she pressed a thumb to the small spot between my eyelid and the bottom of my eyebrow, and slowly traced the length of my eye. Gently, she let her remaining fingers rest on the side of my head, then cautiously make their way back through my dark hair.

She gave me a look that was almost asking for approval, and I took a breath and gazed back unflinchingly.

"Why did you say you were here?" she whispered, although we were the only ones to be seen for miles.

"The pursuit of pleasure," I replied.

"Could I deliver you pleasure?"

I was silent for a moment. "No."

She looked fazed by my response, and I countered. "You could deliver me happiness."

A warmth brushed my lips, a cool, light warmth as she leaned in. I closed my eyes, inhaling her scent, cotton and citrus and willow trees, and let her deepen the kiss. She pulled back, and I looked up at her pleadingly. She darted in again, then withdrew quickly. Her eyes were brighter than before.

Unable to bear the suspense, I let my lips crash messily into hers, and for a brief moment it was lust and nothing more.

We both pulled back at the same time, never losing eye contact.

"Happiness is fleeting," I considered aloud.

"Pleasure is forever," she breathed in response.

And with that, she began walking, and I silently followed, gathering the petals behind her.