She was all limbs. Past tense. Though presumably, three weeks gone, the limbs would still hold their exaggerated length. However, despite her religious beliefs, she was charred. Efficiency and haste, not to mention cost, overrides religious dogma in this place. So, rather than the beetles, multi-generations of maggots and the butyric fermentation of her body exposing the knuckle-dragging ancestry of Kendra’s forefathers, all that is left are the dull memories of our incomplete journey.
I’m short, but she was tall. We’re of roughly the same height. Thin, though not athletic; however, passingly capable of athletic endeavors. She could be lost in a crowd of average, but if you looked hard enough there was symmetry that some could find attractive. Intelligence is attractive. Kendra’s intelligent. Intelligence is attractive in a partner whose design was to help solve a mystery. My mystery; our mystery, a mystery of consciousness. The mystery of who pulls the strings and whether there truly are turtles all the way down the line. It’s now my mystery. Singular.
I read. She read. We read together. Scramble brought us together. She won, often. I lost, mostly. But, I contend, I wrote significantly better. We bonded over books. Literature of any kind was a topic of great debate. She was the Harper Lee to my Capote. She was Jekyll, and I was Hyde. Despite the differences in our genitalia Kendra and I worked as a team minus the sexual tension necessary for the plot of most stories whose main characters have a penis and vagina. Together we were an asexual force of creativity that drew from rage and despondency.
But we failed, and here is how.