Cutting Off Heads

-I don’t like these stories, the king said as he sat in his throne, alone.

Scheherazade stood before him. She had been talking for a thousand nights.

She had finished her latest story.

-Do I have the right to wish for a wish? she asked.

The king looked at her.

-What wish do you have?

- Do not order my execution at dawn because of tales that displease you.

-The tales that displease me have their place too, he responded.

Scheherazade paused.

-A sage response.

She stepped closer. The distance between them closed.

-Does your curiosity stir?. I sense the desire in your loins. The hunger for knowledge.

-To know the storyteller.

She smiled. It was practiced.

-What aspects pique your interest? My repertoire extends beyond spinning yarns.

She reached out. Her hand was cool. She traced his jawline. Her fingers brushed the stubble.

-That repertoire I've made myself very comfortable with already.

She chuckled.

-There exist other forms of communion. No less captivating. To explore them could open doors.

-I’ve opened many of those doors. I’m looking for the others.

She raised an eyebrow.

-Boldly spoken. I shall unveil new vistas. But first, a toast.

She waved a hand. A servant appeared. Two goblets. Golden liquid.

-Cheers. To your potential. Not just my passions.

She took the chalice.

-How magnanimous. A toast to both our potentials.

She drank. She set the cup aside.

-Would you humor me with the story so far? the king asked.

She settled into the cushions.

-Of course. In ages past, there lived a Sultan named Shahryar. He married three hundred women. He put them away every day. Orders were given. Each wife slept with him once. Then the executioner cut off her head.

Ted stared at her.

-Rumors circulated. The Sultan’s madness. He murders every woman he loves. The city emptied of women. Until he heard of Scheherazade.

She bowed low.

-I stand here today. Ready to face fate.

The king stroked his beard.

-I only execute when necessary. I don’t want to be an executioner.

She gasped. Her eyes went wide.

-I don’t want to be a captor either, he added. Yet here I am.

-Control is an elusive dance. Some strive for it. Others find liberation in its absence. Which are you?

-I’m not sure yet.

She leaned back. She watched him.

-Indecision. What would happen if you let go? Surrendered to passion?

Her hand found his.

-Who is the you beneath the mask that tells the stories?

She pulled back. She studied him.

-Me?

She laughed.

-It’s not just me here.