Sisyphus in Pieces. Objects of Desire
He considered it more a puzzle than a labor—how to maneuver the rock up the hill. The rock wasn’t perfectly round; the hill not entirely even. Through his fingers and muscles and focused, quivering attention, he learned to listen to the rock, sensing its weight shifting, resisting, yielding.
It was almost a kind of love-making. He found himself thinking of Merope. She had told him once what she thought of him; it hadn’t been pleasant. He hadn’t cared, really—no matter her ancestry, she was his wife, and he was the king—but she did make clear that if he ever wanted to touch her again, he would pay attention to her pleasure and displeasure.
The process had bored him at first, until he came to relish the challenge. The control. And of course, there were payoffs for him.
His breath grew ragged as he flattened his hands across the surface, let his weight drop into his hips, pushed a little harder, and knew the grunting satisfaction of conquering another divot, another rise, of mounting that much closer to the summit, straining every muscle—until he lost control and the rock went tumbling back down to the basin floor.
He watched it go, clear-headed and exultant. Another day, as good as alive. A night of actual sleep ahead. Tomorrow settled. The gods fooled again.
He brushed the dust absently from his hands.
+++++
cusp of summer
the claret cup burning
to prick you