The Hour of the Wolf.

Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Much like clammy summer days. Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Who dream of great things with restless hearts in the deafening yet pregnant silence amidst the gathering shadows. Of Fortune. And Glory. Of Hearth and Home. Of Faraway Lands. And the Written Word. Ponderous nights have never been ready friends for restless young men. Who dream of great things. While lying awake. In the pregnant silence of countless nights.

Every Maria.

He wondered if she loved him.

Really.

She was so distant. Perpetually
preoccupied.

He drifted away.

She stayed as she was. Mum. And
spare.

But in times when the
silence crashes down on her.
She would strain …

“I love you like I love my garlics,
my onions, my tomatoes, my
herbs, and spices. I love you like I
love the rough yet giving iron
skillet. I love you like I love my
gleaming copper pans. . .”

Ensconced by her stove and oven.
The kitchen she loved so much, now her own jail. And she her
own jailer.

Hoping the scent of her cooking
would call him back …

To dine.
To feast once again.