FIDEM MEAM NOTO

The rains were beginning again.

Rain made it perfect

.He’d chosen the Sumatran ceremonial mat, circa 1870, for tonight’s proceedings. Past civilizations had treated textiles of its sort as precious gifts from deities of their day. Articles such as this one were only brought into usage on the most auspicious occasions—often as rarely as four times in a century. Tonight’s circumstance seemed as appropriate.

Gurhan bent over Priestess Damiana where she lay upon the mat-draped bed to place a kiss upon her forehead. Scalding tears threatened to overflow his eyelids but he held these back as he always did, because his tears saddened her. Tonight was their anniversary. Nothing could be allowed to disrupt their celebratory mood.

His lips came away from his wife’s forehead bespeckled with mucoid flakes of her flesh. Her unseeing spoiled-milk eyes wept ichor like rancid wine, like maniac mascara, staring up at nothing, observing everything…