Accompanying them was about the most beautiful boy I ever laid my eyes upon. He seemed to be smitten with me as well. Leaving the lovers to their tryst, we wandered through the woods, talking, getting to know each other. He ended up being the youngest son of the mentor and the healer. Both had gifted him with their knowledge. He would have us stop and sit and would draw a plant, describing its healing attributes. I asked if he had been gifted with poetry, and he said he had, though with a humbleness I would discover to be undeserved. I admitted to him, for the first time with anyone, that I enjoyed composing poems as well. It was a silly dream of mine that if I found my mate, I would recite to him and only him. None of the village boys interested me. It seemed like we were destined to meet. He genuinely liked the poems, and made me promise to compose one just for us, about us."The next time we met, I recited it, by far the longest and most inspired of my compositions. He loved it so. Dreamless sleep came quickly.Tuesday was entirely normal, except some of the girls complained about the flowers being gone. I got home, though, and things were definitely in an uproar. I had to park on the street because of the large truck that was in front of my garage door. The door itself was open, and I could hear the hum of machines of some kind and several voices coming from inside the house.I stepped from the garage entry onto the kitchen floor and a big guy yelled, "Watch it! That's fresh wax!"I backed up a step and watched the one who'd spoken wrap a cord around the handle of some large, round machine."Can I ask what you're doing in my house?" I said.The machine handler—the tag on his shirt read "Tommy"—turned his head and yelled, "Hustle up! We gotta go!"Two young men, slightly smaller than Tommy, came around the corner into the kitchen carrying mops, brooms and assorted bottles and cloths in a big basket. They brushed past me without slowing and started stowing things in.
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