Caravaggio came into the kitchen to find Hana sitting hunched over the table. He could not see her face or her arms tucked in under her body, only the naked back, the bare shoulders. She was not still or asleep. With each shudder her head shook over the table. 

 

 

Caravaggio stood there. Those who weep lose more energy than they lose during any other act. It was not yet dawn.

“Hana,” he said, and she stilled herself as if she could be camouflaged by stillness.“Hana.” 

 

 

She began to moan so the sound would be a barrier between them, a river across which she could not be reached. 

 

 

He was uncertain at first about touching her in her nakedness, said “Hana,” and then lay his bandaged hand on her shoulder. She did not stop shaking. 

She raised herself, her head down still, then stood up against him as if dragging herself away from the magnet of the table. 

 

 

“Don't touch me if you're going to try and fuck me.” She said.

The skin pale above her skirt, which was all she wore in this kitchen, as if she had risen from the bed, dressed partially and come out here, the cool air from the hills entering the kitchen doorway and cloaking her. 

 

 

“Hana.” 

“Why do you adore him so much?” 

 

 

“I love him.” She said.

 

 

“You don't love him, you adore him.” 

 

 

 

 

“Go away, Caravaggio. Please.”