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Glaring I spat, “Who do you think you are?
"I'm Lord Phoebus of Mount Cynthus, and it would be an honor to have someone as lovely as you to give me a tour of the town." He almost seemed meek and uncertain of his request, completely at odds with his actions.
Interesting. My face probably says it all. Internally, I'm not sure if I believe him. Nothing about his presentation seems comforting. “I'm not your servant. Go find yourself a tour guide.”
Would a lord be left to his own devices in the middle of a town? That’s a recipe to get robbed blind by people down on their luck.
“Please, my maiden. It would be an honor to escort a lord around your beautiful city,” the supposed ‘Lord of Cynthus’ impresses upon me. Something in my gut tells me that he isn’t truthful, but why would anyone need to lie about something as trivial as that?
This man can't seem to take a hint. How much blunter do I need to be for this to get through to him?
"An honor, you say?” I reply sarcastically. Hardly able to keep my eyes from rolling my eyes from his inflated self-worth. “Well Lord Phoebus of Mount Cynthus, forgive me if I don’t feel particularly honored by your presence."
Wait a minute…Is he trying to make a pass at me?Gaia, horny men will do anything and be anyone to get laid.
“Good luck in finding a tour guide.” The snarkiness in my voice almost bled into the air around us.
The Lord’s brow furrows. “Won’t you take me on a tour? It should be an honor for someone from your station.”
And there he goes again. This guy needs to learn how to take a hint. The man needs to learn that he isn’t the gods greatest gift since olives.
Biting back my annoyance, I glare at him. Resisting the urge to strike him across the face. “I suggest you find someone else. In the future, I suggest you learn how not to tell others to feel about your presence.” I storm down the street, blending into the crowds.
Rushing past the thick crowd, I aim to put as much distance between us as possible.
Looking back, he was nowhere to be found.
Good.
Finally, he’s leaving me alone.
The smell of foreign spices, sugar, buttery rolls, and other delicious aroma of other baked goods makes my stomach growl.
But there’s one stand that I avoid. Leaving a wide berth.
The baklava stand makes my heart ache.
Every year, dad and I would make it from scratch. The thin pastry seemed like something so little back then. Back before I lost him.
In years past, I would try and make up any excuse not to have to get up before Apollo himself and make the dessert. Sure, it was tasty, but back then I valued my sleep.
Now, I would give anything to bake baklava or just have a few more moments with him.
Tears threaten to spill down my face as I push on. Putting as much space between me and the cart as I could.
I miss him so much.
A vision threatens the edge of my mind.
Not right now.
Burying the thoughts deep inside me, I wished I could silence the guilt and the pain. But nothing helps. Once on a spiral, I need to ride it out to be rid of it. Otherwise, the pressure just keeps on building.
When I came to town, I was bloodied. My clothes ripped from the thorns and brambles.
I hate remembering the summer solstice. Not only had I lost dad, but I have someone who haunts my soul.
Everything I did that day, I did wrong. I lied to the people of the town, I caused dad to get taken, and none of us searched for him.
