As she swatted at the reprehensible fly with her katana, hoping to cut it to pieces. She forgot how close he stood, as he always did. The razor sharp blade sliced effortless through the fly and his flesh.
Totally unaware, completely satisfied, she returned the blade to its gilded scabbard, failing to sense the faint trickle of blood on the cold steel or maybe she mistook the blood as the fly’s. Either way the fly was no more, itch scratched !
She lovingly turned to him, he in turn smiled and complimented her on her adroitness.
They walked away hand in hand, sharing stolen glances, lost in their own utopia, bound together by old magic. She loved the way he often wore new tunics. Little did she know that there had been many a flies, each conspicuously marked on his being.
He so hoped that she would never see the scars and the cuts. Scars sealed with the salt of his tears and the warmth of her kisses.
He just hoped and waited for her to put the katana away or for the single stroke of euthanasia, praying not for exsanguination.