Control

Samothrace is the island from which Poseidon watched the fall of Troy. This is the longest story I've ever written. While most of what I write is fiction that contains something of me, this one is painful and raw - the fictional elements are used to tell the story.


As the sparsely populated ferry approached the island, I could not help but smile. Samothrace appeared in front of me as a solid rock rising dramatically out of the inky blue Aegean. It looked barren and desolate, seemingly home to nothing and no one. I often felt like a lone rock rising out of the inky deepness of humanity.

In the year since my divorce, I had entertained the opinions and voices of others almost non-stop. I needed to find my own voice, to drown myself in solitude and listen to who I had become. I needed to regain control.

Control. A central theme in my life.

No, it has never been about the need or desire to control others, only about self-control. I am most content when I rule my life with an almost monastic iron fist - constantly striving for the elusive goal of perfection at each turn and with every inhalation. It comforts me. At times, this has taken on an obsessive/compulsive sincerity, and I could feel myself teetering on that edge.

My constant craving for self-control led, quite naturally, to a love and fascination with ceremony of all sorts. I often found myself drawn to books on religion, yearning to have something in my life that provided that level of ritual without the commitment required to actually become a member of some church, without having to share myself with a congregation that pretended to know my thoughts and needs while knowing nothing of me.

This searching led me to find a novel based on the mystery religious cults of the classical world, which sparked an interest in this destination. The novel was weather-beaten and tattered when it fell into my hands, and I pored over it for days. Set on the island of Samothrace, it related the life of a member of one of these cults in a way that was charming and seductive. I was rapt. Shortly after finishing the novel, but still reveling in its secrets, I was invited to attend a wedding in Athens. If anything seemed star-crossed, this certainly did.

I rejected the idea of fate, or of things being pre-ordained as a matter of principal. Sure, I paid that romantic notion the same lip service as everyone else. But in my heart of hearts, I believed it to be nothing more than saccharine attempts to comfort someone when you didn’t know what else to say. Let’s face it, “Everything happens for a reason.” sounds better than, “Yeah, you really were an idiot for doing that.”

As the ferry continued closer to the island, the abject desolation gave way to a charming personality - small while houses dotted the hills, the barren landscape revealed low-lying bushes that reflected the light perfectly off their silvery-green leaves. A lone donkey grazed absent-mindedly on a steep hillside, and men in black caps bustled around the tiny harbor. The sun was impossibly strong, but a rapid breeze made the heat pleasant. A fellow passenger turned to me and said, “Beautiful, no?” in a heavily accented English. I smiled at him and nodded. It certainly was beautiful.

Upon disembarking the ferry, for a brief moment, I panicked. Me, Ms. Control, had traveled thousands of miles without a plan, without even the most basic plan - I had nowhere to sleep. My fears were quickly allayed by the approach of a woman so short and squat as to appear perfectly round. Dressed all in black with long silver hair curled into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, Kiria Apostolou had spent her life on the island. After the death of her husband, she earned a meager income by renting a room in her home to the occasional tourist. She spoke virtually no English, and I spoke virtually no Greek. It seemed a match made in Heaven. She carried a small notepad with her, and we agreed on a price for the accommodations by scratching numbers on the paper.

With a swift turn that seemed impossible for someone of her girth, she indicated that I should follow her. I was expecting to be led to a car, instead, she began walking up the hillside. We walked side by side in forced silence, an occasional nod and smile to each other our only communication. I giggled silently as I watched her stubby legs hoist her up the impossibly steep incline. An audible giggle escaped my lips as a mental image of her tripping and rolling down the hill and into the sea with a loud “splash” popped into my head. She reached out and patted my shoulder then, her kind gesture stirring the all too familiar sensation of guilt.

After a very long hike up the hillside, we arrived at her home - a charming and beautiful white-washed cottage with an unfettered view of the sea. I breathed in deeply and felt quite comfortable. She opened the unlocked door and stepped aside to allow me entrance. A small sofa seemed placed to hold up one wall while framed pictures of fishermen, presumably family, lined the wall above it. An archaic radio sat in the corner atop a tiny end table, chirping words I couldn’t understand. A tiny metal bistro table with two chairs occupied the majority of the kitchen. Minimal counter space was taken up by an old coffee maker and a microwave oven as large as her small refrigerator.

My room was tiny, but immaculate. A twin-sized bed was tightly wedged into the space, leaving no room for any other object. A window right above provided an almost surreal view of the Aegean. Kiria Apostolou beamed an almost toothless smile at me and proudly outstretched her arms to display my temporary residence. I beamed back at her and nodded approval. Her pride was visible, infectious. She turned to leave, her wide hips whacking the doorway and closed me into the tiny space.

Almost immediately, I collapsed onto the cloudlike mattress dressed simply in white cotton and stared dreamily out the window. I had no plans to stay. I had no plans to leave.

My first week on the island, I spoke to no one except Kiria, the two of us rapidly becoming an odd-couple with a well-developed routine. I would rise early each morning to find her waiting for me at her tiny kitchen table with impossibly strong coffee. I would gratefully accept the cup she provided, lacing my tennis shoes as we sipped. Nearing the bottom of the cup, she’d pat my hand gently, and I’d head out the door for my morning run. The island was hospitable to runners - donkeys outnumbered cars at an impressive ratio, but paved roads led up to an ancient church and down to the coast. I would start upwards first, popping into the church each morning to say a prayer of thanks - for the solitude, for the quiet, for the time, then follow the road to the sea. Once there, I’d leave my sneakers on the beach and plunge into the calm water for an easy swim.

Upon my return, I’d find Kiria again at her tiny table, an assortment of cheeses, breads and fruits prepared especially for me. She’d fill my plate until I dramatically collapsed on the table signifying my satiety, making her laugh each time. After lunch, I’d retire to my tiny haven and scribble for hours in my journal until the soul purging was interrupted by Kiria’s knock. She’d enter silently and lay a tray of food on the foot of the bed. At times, I’d pick at her offerings. More often than not, I’d simply continue to write furiously until sleep overcame me.

It was during my second week on Samothrace that I met Kiria’s daughter, Elena. I returned from a run one morning to find an interloper in my chair at the kitchen table. Elena lived on the island, just slightly up the hill, and had been beckoned by Kiria because she spoke English. Kiria was concerned about me, and Elena was present to serve as translator.

Elena relayed her mother’s concerns: I didn’t eat enough, I ran too much, I slept too much, I wrote too much, I spent too much time trapped inside of my own head. I spent all my free time with an old woman that I couldn’t even speak to. I needed to spend some time with people my own age. I was squandering my youth and needed to be living my life, at least as long as I was on her island.

My initial wariness of Elena quickly became a fast friendship as I realized that she was as warm and nurturing as her mother. Her charcoal eyes bore a genuine twinkle, her round face friendly and open, unlined from having lived a life that was simple and pure.

In an attempt to allay the fears of this wonderful old woman I was quickly coming to love, I relayed my life story to Elena. I was married quite young to a man who promised me the world. We would spend hours discussing the future we both envisioned and I was delighted to listen to my lover tell me that he shared my goals and dreams and was willing and able to jointly achieve them. My naiveté and desire to create a family, to forge a life worth living, propelled me into his arms. Immediately, we began trying to conceive our first child.

Shortly before our first wedding anniversary, I became pregnant only to miscarry on Mother’s Day. Instead of offering me support, he insisted we travel to visit his mother and robustly pregnant sister. The three hour journey lasted well over six hours - my profuse bleeding requiring frequent stops that served as a constant reminder of my devastating loss. I sobbed as he drove, only to hear that I was being overly sensitive. Once at the home of my sister-in-law, I was forced to place my hands on the wondrous belly, to feel a wee life beat inside a womb while my pale skin and raw nerves reminded me that my womb was empty.

Never one to shun my commitments, I continued to work towards the goals that I had set, with the singular sort of perfection I approached everything with. I maintained a home so clean and orderly that a drill sergeant wouldn’t have been able to utter a complaint. Not only did I learn how to cook, I made gourmet meals nightly. Not only did I continue to work, I excelled in my chosen perfection, rapidly rising to the top of my field. The neighbors commented on how perfect we were together, and I could see their point. Except that I was growing weary of working towards such perfection alone.

The following year, I suffered an attack of appendicitis. Overcome with pain, I fixed a scalding hot bath and climbed in. As I sat in the steaming water I screamed in pain. My husband entered the bathroom and told me to stop being so pathetic. I stopped being pathetic until I passed out cold in the bathtub - the result of septic shock. During my hospitalization, my husband never left my side and yet somehow I remained alone. Ten days later, I emerged from the hospital a skeleton, terrified from the near-death experience. Again, I used the pain to strengthen my resolve - working even harder to create the life I dreamed of, to maintain the perfect marriage that I suddenly realized was nothing but a construct of my own mind.

Three challenging and childless years passed and my obsession with motherhood grew. Countless doctor’s visits, fertility treatments and surgeries filled my days while my nights were spent begging my husband to make love to me and ultimately crying myself to sleep from the painful rejection. It wasn’t just that he was rejecting me, he was rejecting my desire to be a mother, to start a family.

Eventually, our union would produce two children, each pregnancy occurring at precisely the moment I finally found the resolve to leave him, an irony that was never lost on me. Still, I was utterly thankful for those perfect babies with their starfish hands and chubby legs and turned my attention to them, confident that I could create for them a childhood full of happy memories.
While my husband grew into his recliner, I persisted and I smiled and I embraced him - still willing to fulfill my promises to him, desperate to see my life plan through to completion. His fatigue grew into anger and from his leather perch, he’d bark - on every mundane subject imaginable.

His three minions grew silent, carefully avoiding the pitfalls that would begin the anger, our spines visibly tensing each time his hypercritical voice boomed over the rumble of the television. As gunfire erupted on The History Channel, my children and I would find ways to occupy ourselves that wouldn’t invite the ire. We’d go to the park, we’d go swimming, we’d color. Trips to the grocery store were a welcome escape and often, I’d buckle them into their car seats and drive aimlessly for hours at a time.

I took the children on a long vacation to visit my ailing grandmother. While on vacation, one of my credit cards was declined. I didn’t understand. We were financially secure - of that I was certain, I had worked far too hard for far too long for us to not be. Upon our return, I discovered that my husband had sold my sailboat - my only cherished possession.

It wasn’t much later that I discovered the devastating lies - the credit cards he had obtained in my name, the mountains of debt he had managed to amass despite our more than adequate incomes, his cavalier attitude towards what I had spent so many years diligently trying to create . The man that I had trusted had thrust me, unknowingly and unwittingly, into a deep and treacherous canyon.

To destroy my ability to trust another with my emotional security hurt. To destroy my ability to rely on another for love and companionship hurt. To wake every day and work towards what I thought were shared goals alone hurt. But those wounds I could heal. To discover that our financial security - the well-being of my children - had been destroyed was far too much for me to bear.

I left my husband then, leaving the home that I had poured my soul into, moving my children into a tiny apartment that lacked the space and the niceties of the only residence they had ever known. He begged me for forgiveness, he begged me to give him another chance but it was far too late. As sure as my commitment to our marriage had been, my resolve to leave had been forged in steel.

For months, I left our bright and cheerful new home only to work and to take my children to the park - we’d return to our sanctuary and I’d marvel at my breath - filling my lungs and exhaling - for the first time in well over a decade. They were happier too - I watched them play, let them scream and tickled them for hours on end before we’d all climb into my bed and collapse into dreamless sleep. Yes, it was silence I sought then. Silence and solitude and it’s attendant absence of lies.

In Kiria’s tiny kitchen, mother and daughter both stared at me, motionless as I recalled my life. I didn’t cry, and thought that I must have looked like a mannequin. I had been so devastated by the course my decisions had taken that I was numb to reality, numb to my life. I had finally reached the point where I wanted to live again - but I had no idea how I was supposed to do that. And so, I traveled far away - alone again - in an attempt to find that path.

The explanation seemed to satisfy Kiria. Through Elena, she told me that I was welcome in her home for as long as I needed to stay. She called me her “American Daughter”, then she told me to think about all the running, to truly try and understand what I was running from. She rose, kissed me on the cheek and spoke again. Elena said, “She wants to know how long you think you’ll be able to stay away from your children.“ I shook my head, genuinely saddened to think of them, but certain in the knowledge that they needed a healthy mother and that to return to them before I had found my own happiness would be a disservice.

During the third week, I returned from my morning run to find Elena taking up residence in my seat once again. “There is a party tomorrow night in the neighboring village. Be ready to go at eight. I will pick you up. Do you have any clothes?”

I laughed at the implication - she had only seen me in running clothes. I smiled at her, “Yes, I have a dress. What is the party for?” I asked.

“Someone was born, someone died. Someone moved back to the island. Someone moved away. Someone got married. It’s someone’s birthday. Silly girl. It doesn’t matter why there is a party, there is a party!” Her excitement propelled her up from the chair and towards the door. “Do you have lipstick? You’ll need lipstick.”

The following morning, I was actually excited about the prospect of attending the party. Kiria was excited as well. She continuously glanced at a small clock. As the departure time neared, she brought me a stack of fresh towels and a small bottle of rose-water perfume, nodding eagerly and pushing me towards the bathroom.

I was ready to leave Kiria’s house, ready to spend the evening with people my age, ready to dance, have a drink and to hear laughter. Elena arrived at exactly eight o’clock and nodded approvingly at my attire. “You look lovely. Skinny. But lovely.” She told me.

She was right. The running had taken a toll on my body. I felt strong, but I hadn’t noticed how thin I had become until I pulled my dress over my head and watched it hang limply on my frame. The drive to the nearby village was a long one, and Elena talked nonstop for our journey up impossibly steep hills. I clutched the door handle and watched my knuckles turn white as she sped around switchbacks telling me stories of her childhood on the island. With her, I laughed loud and hard - for the first time in a very long time.

As we approached the village, I began to feel strange stirrings - excitement, optimism, and joy. The plateia, or town square, was completely dressed for the party. There was a roped off area at one side of the square that created a dramatic entrance with flowers adorning a cheap metal archway. Tables were piled into the space, packed with revelers. I thought everyone on the island must be at this party. Children screamed and ran around through the legs of their parents. The short olive trees housed paper lanterns that cast an orange glow over the tables, lighting bottles of Ouzo and Retsina. Bouzouki music poured out of the open shops. A wandering band competed not only with the shopkeepers tunes, but with a larger band on the other side of the square.

I could feel my smile, and smiled even bigger because of it. Elena grabbed my hand and rushed me towards the entrance. “Fun, fun.” she said. I simply nodded.

I saw him the second we walked through the archway. I thought that he looked like a Classical Greek sculpture with perfectly proportioned features, a straight nose and an indefinable gentleness. He sat with a group of friends, leaning forward onto his knees, his broad shoulders toned under a simple black t-shirt. I was thankful that Elena was tugging me along by the hand, certain I’d be unable to move an inch without the impetus. I silently prayed that she knew him, that we’d be joining his group.

She dragged me just past him and I noticed him glance at me as we walked. I attempted a smile, but Elena was moving too quickly for me to note whether it was returned. After introducing me to a few of her friends along the path, Elena selected a table just behind him. I turned my chair so that I could watch him, happy to stare at his back, surprising myself by daydreaming about running my hands down it. I was shocked when I saw him turn around to look at me, and smiled broadly, pretending to listen to the conversation at my table. Over the next hour, we smiled and flirted silently, his head turned to look at me, my body turned towards him as much as possible.
Elena noticed the game we were playing and smiled at me. “This is ridiculous. Just talk to him.” She said. I shook my head timidly. She resumed her conversation, while the man and I continued our silly game.

The evening danced on and I enjoyed myself tremendously. It was refreshing to be out and about, with other people living their lives, the warm breeze rolling in from the Aegean, a handsome stranger nearby to flirt with, even if only silently. The night was drawing to a close. Elena looked at me and said, “ You have one last chance tonight. Introduce yourself or I will do it for you.”

I was in a quandary. I desperately wanted to talk to this man, but I was completely unsure as to how I was supposed to do that. I attempted to rise from my chair and introduce myself, but my body wouldn’t follow the will of my mind. Elena rapidly became frustrated by my stalling and leaned over me to speak to him.

“This is Anna. She is on the island for the summer, staying at my mother’s house.” She quickly backed away and resumed her previous conversation.

The man looked at me intently for a brief moment before introducing himself. “My name is Tony. So tell me, Anna. Where should I take you for our first date?”

I blushed and giggled. This man could easily charm me, he already had. “I will pick you up at six on Wednesday.” His certainty was comforting to me, I loved his willingness to make life easy for me, to make decisions and free me from thinking. He and Elena had a brief conversation in Greek then she ushered me out the door to her car. The drive back to her mother’s house passed in a blur, as did the following three days.

Tony arrived on Wednesday a few minutes before six. He was as attractive as I remembered although quite a bit taller and broader than I had thought. We drove, mostly in silence, to a small restaurant near the beach. We spoke about our careers, our leisure pursuits and our families. After dinner, we went for a walk along the shoreline. Our conversation flowed simply, and I was thankful to be with a man as easy and happy as the one before me. The darkening sky indicated that it was getting quite late.

Tony said. “I’d better get you home, I don’t want Kiria Apostolou to worry after you.” I smiled and nodded at him, and he held his hands out to help me up from the sand. As I stood, he circled his arms around my waist and pulled me firmly against him. My hands timidly landed on his chest and I rose to my toes to meet his lips. His kiss was sweet, but much deeper than I expected and the intensity shocked me. I pulled away from him abruptly, allowing my body to remain pressed against his, my hands trying to remember how to touch a man. He leaned down again and kissed me softly, his arm keeping me in close proximity despite my urge to pull away again. He released his grip seconds before his tongue snaked out to briefly tease my lips. He pulled away then and ushered me up the beach, back to his car, a self-satisfied smile dancing across his face.

I was hosting an amalgam of feelings that were all unfamiliar to me. Until this evening, it had been thirteen years since I had been in the arms of a man other than my husband. It had been two years since I had been in the arms of a man at all. I wanted to feel the feelings that were beginning deep inside, but I had long forgotten how. Nonetheless, I was happy and excited by prospects - Tony was a beautiful man - both inside and out. I couldn’t explain it, but he bled an innate sweetness, with just a touch of something salty that I couldn’t quite define. I decided to stop thinking, to allow life to unfold, but to be open to possibility.

Two days later, Tony arrived at precisely the time he had promised. Kiria ran to the door to let him in. He greeted her warmly, his voice soft and kind as he spoke to her. She was beaming. Tony was well on his way to winning me over, but Kiria was clearly already falling in love.

Once we were outside, he said, “What, I don’t get a hug?” and I was happy to embrace him. His arms wrapped around me and squeezed me tightly.

“What do you have planned tonight?” I asked.

He smiled at me, placing a motorcycle helmet over my head. “First, I’m going to feed you. Kiria just instructed me to do so. She said you never eat.” He feigned a look of admonishment and kissed me on the forehead. “Then, I’m going to take you to my favorite place on the island.”

“But I don’t ride motorcycles.” I informed him.

“I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you.” He said as he winked at me. And I believed him.

Our conversation flowed much easier than on our previous date, our mutual nervousness beginning to dissipate, and I discovered that Tony had a sharp wit and an agile mind. It was a delightful surprise. After dinner, we popped into a small pub and sat at a long table outside. Tony was affectionate and tender and as we continued to talk, I watched our hands find each other, fingers entwining and releasing, a strange flirtation that was automatic and very welcome. He noticed everything about me, and commented on it all - teasing good-naturedly at times, expressing approval at others. I was relaxed in his presence and perfectly happy.

Tony’s favorite place on the island was a very small plateia, with a fountain in the middle. The night was cool and breezy, the sky cloudless. We sat on the edge of the fountain, his legs wrapped around my body, mine draped over him as close as we could possibly be without being completely indecent.

As his fingers stroked my collarbone, he asked, “What are you looking for here?” I smiled at him and thought of how to answer. He knew that I was divorced, but the details of the situation were not something I had divulged. He saw me struggling to answer him and asked, “How long do you plan to stay here?”

“I will only be on the island for the summer, and honestly, all I can handle is a summer love.” I said softly. “I’m not ready for anything more. I can only think of my life in three month increments at the moment.”

“You always surprise me.” He said, kissing my cheek. He shifted away from me and began to speak, slowly, “I can’t fall in love with a woman that has children. I desperately want children and, I just thought you should know.”

I leaned into him then and kissed his cheek. His candor was refreshing and I respected his sincerity. I wanted to tell him that I understood, I wanted to tell him how long I had struggled to become a mother and how I would never deny another person the joy that comes from holding your own flesh and blood as they slept peacefully in your arms. I wanted to tell him that I thought he was the most beautiful man I had ever laid eyes on. But mostly, I wanted him to feel safe with me too. I wanted him to know that he didn’t have to explain things that were too difficult to talk about. I wanted him to feel the way I wanted someone to make me feel. So I kissed him deeply, fully allowing myself to express the passion I was feeling, surrendering myself to the moment.

With that, our relationship had been defined. We would enjoy each other for the summer, without a promise - either real or implied - of a future together. The arrangement suited us both just fine.

Our third date was far more intimate than either of us expected. We may have had dinner, we may not have. I really can’t recall. I clearly recall walking hand in hand to the beach and settling onto a blanket, a small cooler of beer next to us. We talked, we curled into each other, we laughed and we shared kisses that produced wave after relentless wave of goosebumps along every inch of my flesh. Tony noticed it, commented on it and I was embarrassed. But as he held me tightly against him, the embarrassment faded and I was happy to be in his arms. He curled his large body around mine. We fell asleep like that for about an hour with the cool breeze blowing off the water, the stars twinkling overhead. As he gently stroked my arm, I felt like a hothouse flower - prized and protected.

Our fourth date saw the consummation of our relationship and the sensation of being intimate with someone so utterly available to me was intense. Oddly, I don’t remember the details of the evening - I was too overwhelmed with expectation, too unaccustomed to sharing my body with men - to pay attention to the details. But I remember the way he undressed me slowly, the way he bathed my body with approving kisses, the way he made something that felt so unnatural to me feel so natural.

We talked easily and often on a variety of subjects, but mostly avoided the more serious topics - past relationships, future expectations - preferring to enjoy what we both knew was limited time together. We laughed together easily, and he never, ever pushed me. He’d sense when a topic was becoming more in-depth than my comfort level and he would immediately back off. “Don’t tell me anything you don’t want to tell me.” He’d say. His openness and his willingness to just let me be was more comforting than his arms wrapped tightly around me.

Similar to the routine Kiria and I had developed, Tony and I naturally began our own routine, both of us taking care not to tread too firmly on the other. Every few days I’d head to Tony’s house. Most of our dates involved food - and it always pleased me that Tony realized I’d simply forget to eat were it not for his insistence - a small gesture, but one that nurtured by starving soul.

I adored the way he treated me. When we were out, Tony was attentive and considerate, the obvious product of parents that insisted he be the consummate gentleman. I never opened a door, his hands were always touching me sweetly and he paid attention - to everything. When we were in, the situation was much different. Tony was completely in control.

Shortly after our relationship became physical, I was standing at the breakfast bar in Tony’s kitchen. He placed my hands on the bar and moved his over mine.

“Don’t move your hands.” He said.

“I want to touch you.” I replied.

“Do not move your hands.” I could tell from his voice that he wasn’t smiling.

Slowly, he began to undress me from behind. I stood before him nude, motionless, as his tongue worked it’s way down my back. As he kneeled before me, I could feel my legs begin to quiver. Slowly, his tongue worked his way back up my body until his mouth was on my neck, his face tucked tightly into the small space. I jumped as I felt a firm smack on my ass, seconds before he grabbed my shoulders roughly and turned me to face him. His mouth found mine and he kissed me aggressively before picking me up and carrying me to his bed. I was shocked and more than a little nervous. I really didn’t know this man. Would he hurt me? My pulse was bounding as adrenaline poured through my body, my arousal pouring down my legs.

“I love the way your mouth does that when you’re excited.” He whispered, tucking his head into my breasts. “And you don’t even realize you’re doing it, do you?” I didn’t. I still don’t know what he meant. I smiled at him as he kissed me deeply but briefly, pulling away to watch me come to him. I remained still underneath him, smiling. He grabbed my face hard and held me against the bed while whispering in my ear, “Don’t you dare hold back with me.”

With one hand, he captured my wrists, turning me around and shoving me onto the bed. I watched in a strategically placed mirror as he drove into me from behind, ecstatic in his firm grip, enthralled with how small I looked under his body. Without holding back, I screamed his name, feeling wave after wave of pleasure rock my body. The louder I was, the more aggressive I was, the more he enjoyed our passion and I felt his release occur in harmony with my own. After, he gently lifted me onto his bed and curled his body around mine. I slept as he tenderly stroked my arm, peppering my back with gentle kisses. I surrendered myself to him that night, a decision I’ve never regretted.

One morning, I showed up at his house with a sprained ankle. I had twisted it on my morning run and was suffering greatly. Tony wrapped my ankle in ice and sat me on his couch. He fixed dinner for us, then joined me on my perch. He was concerned and it showed - and I allowed myself to feel his caring. It was given freely and without the guilt that was usually associated with such tenderness in my previous life.

I closed my eyes as he stroked my hair and caressed my cheek. He laid on top of me and began kissing me. With my eyes closed, I could see him - his amber eyes, his perfect nose, his straight teeth. I pressed my body up against his, shifting to feel more of his weight on top of me. My mind began to drift. I could feel his breathing quicken against my neck, his fingers in my hair. I stretched my neck out to him. His fingers curled around my hair and he tugged firmly to stretch my neck further. I gasped at the sensation and was instantly pulled back to the moment, back to him.

As our relationship progressed, the expression of our physicality progressed. My hands would be bound in his, his large hand would wrap firmly around my throat, he’d sink his teeth into my flesh so aggressively that I was certain I’d bleed - all without ever leaving a mark on my sensitive skin. His body did not fair nearly as well as mine. During our morning showers, I’d be apologetic when I discovered the imprint of my mouth etched clearly into his shoulder. I’d be horrified when I saw the blood-streaked scratches that regularly covered his back. Tony would just laugh, “You’re my rabid little kitten.”

By dominating me so completely, Tony forced me to let go of my own rigid need for self-control which freed me to focus on the sensations, completely present in his presence. Aware that I was no match for him physically, he forced me into vulnerability - a place I spent a lifetime avoiding - and that vulnerability forced me to trust him and freed me to feel each touch, each kiss and each earth-shattering orgasm with an intensity I had never experienced.

We made love on the edge of a knife - with no past and no future. But to call what we shared “lovemaking” would be untrue - we were never in love. We enjoyed each other in every sense, but neither of us would relinquish enough control to fall. Sometimes, I think neither of us wanted to be the first to scream “Uncle”. Sometimes, I think we were both just fulfilling a need for the other. Like most things, the reasons are largely irrelevant, but in him, I found my salvation.

As it became obvious that my time on Samothrace was drawing to an end, I became a bit somber, a bit withdrawn. I would miss Kiria and Elena terribly, but the longing I felt to hold my children, to return to them a healthier and happier person was becoming unbearable. Tony had reminded me that I could be all things - that I could be a mother, a lover, a friend, a colleague, a traveler and a runner - without having to run from any one thing.

I didn’t expect that saying good-bye to Tony would be as painful as it was. I’m sure he knew that my departure was nearing, but we never discussed it. The morning I arrived at his house to tell him, he noticed instantly that something was wrong. We chatted casually, both of us pretending things were normal but fully aware of the small dark cloud high above us. As I said goodbye, I began to cry. Tony held me tightly on his lap as the tears gave way to sobbing. He said the appropriate words and he apologized for holding back with me.

For a time, I’d send him emails telling him where I’d be at any given moment, hoping against hope that I’d look up to see him walk through the door. I imagined myself jumping into his arms with a beaming smile and saying, “I‘ve missed you, baby.” But that shit just happens in the movies, it's never that way in real life.

I never told him how much I had held back with him, and part of me will always wonder what it would be like to love him, deeply and purely, with an intensity that we are both so capable of.

It wasn’t until later that I realized how much I miss him. I miss his soft laughter, they way he noticed everything, his gentle teasing, his sly smile, his openness, his perfect kisses and even the way his fingers turned upwards at the tips. I often wonder if he thinks of me the way I think of him, if our relationship meant to him what it meant to me.

As I was leaving, I told him that he had been very good for me, and it was sincere. Our meeting was not fated, nor was it meant to be, but I’ll never understand why something that felt so right was not.