the heart and all its chambers

zeus and hera.

Peter wakes up slowly. His wife sleeps beside him. His wife sleeps beautifully, quietly: her long lashes fan out against her cheeks, her hair spinning downward to cover the pillow. She sleeps curled on her side, toward him, her hands in fists. 

Two nights ago Peter had held the cheek of some undergrad and stroked his thumb beneath her eye and said you understand me. He had meant it. But it had not been the compliment she thought it was. Peter has no desire to be understood. Peter is understood perfectly by the woman sleeping beside him; what he wants is someone who doesn’t understand. What he wants is someone who looks at him and sees what he wants them to see.

Hera looks at him and sees who he is, all the ugly parts, down to his bones. She stays with him. He doesn’t know why. Peter has always been a helpless sailor on the impenetrable ocean of his wife’s mind.