Oedipus

The first time it was done, his mother pulled me to her and apologized for giving her son up to her husband. She made a big fuss of it, cursing herself for cursing herself. She traced her fingertips along my jawline and proclaimed he was just like his father--a liar--then got down on both knees, crossed her body with her fingers, and prayed to the god within herself. She then motioned me over to do the same. We poured glasses of red wine—“for the blood,” she whispered. I know the communion was for me, both to cool my blood and to grow it hotter with rage until I was stronger than her. Later that night he laid me on his bed and whispered cotton candy words in my ear while giving his manhood to me.

“He loves me,” I thought.

I sat there and watched his body heave up and down as he slept, feeling the red of his skin. I imagined that he felt the same rush of electricity down his spine when his eyes met mine, that he too grew full with thoughts of my image. I became obsessed with fantasies, with our orgasms, with the broken promises he promised to keep but never did. He would cry to me at night like I was the mother whose bosom was in his mouth and he would suck
and suck
and suck.
I would wipe his tears gently from his face and I would moan. I anticipated his lies in the morning, craved the way his tongue curled against the words we both knew were untrue.

When the lies became too painful, and the words became unsweet, I locked myself in my house and cried for a little over a month—40 days and 40 nights.

On the 41st night, his mother knocked lightly on my door four times.

I was silent.

She knocked four times once more, slightly harder, more certain.

I stirred out of bed.

She knocked for the final time. Four strong blows to my front door.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as she pushed herself into the house.