Two Eyes Cenote Dinner & Diatribes

his children grew so fast that khusobek, already a father in a distant land, experienced for the first time a sense of paternal wistfulness. each day that they played and they worked was one he saw as miniscule, growing smaller and smaller still.

water, splashed overhead from a night's rain which trickled into a pool, its rivulet a fresh glisten in the moonglow. he let it course over the broadness of his shoulder; it sluiced along the defined musculature of his back, which did not tense at machiavelli's voice.

"enter."

now, what did this particular man want of him? stepping from the tiny stone cistern for which he had chosen this room, the man moved on pantherine feet to pivot, to watch as the servant made his entrance.

droplets of water fell in translucent beading to the room's floor. eset's hand was at work here, preserved; the masculine air prevailed. behind khusobek, his bed was unmade but it had lain in just those folds for so long that the hides had begun to stiffen. his nights were spent most often in the perfumed and inviting rooms of his wife. this was his first room, and it was here he came to bathe away the sand.

"why do you seek me?" he asked in quiet poise, eyes ready to see what machiavelli revealed with his own.