Flesh Merchant

The throne room was vast and it was empty. The king sat. Scheherazade stood.

-Give me wisdom, he said.

-On what subject?

-Ignorance and bliss.

She paced. The silk whispered. She stopped.

-Leila. A village girl. Untouched by the world.

-Happy?

-Blissfully ignorant. Until the merchant came.

-Suave?

-Silver-tongued. He showered her with gifts. Promises. She eloped. She thought she was unique.

The king watched her.

-The carriage did not go to a palace. It went to a house of ill repute. The merchant locked the door.

-The scoundrel.

-He weighed her flesh against gold. He sold her innocence to the highest bidder.

The king looked away. He covered his face.

-I cannot listen to the rest.

-He sold her. She was broken. Used.

-Did she not fight? Did she not find a weapon?

-No. Despair claimed her. Madness offered escape.

The king reached out. He touched Scheherazade’s cheek. His hand was warm.

-Do you feel like Leila?

She leaned into his palm. She did not pull away.

-No. Your touch ignites. Hers brought only anguish.

-Men can be dark.

-We will chip away at the darkness. Together.

He squeezed her hand.

-Call me Shazi.

-Thank you, Shazi.

He looked at her.

-And what manner of man am I?.

-A loving one. And a lustful one.