My Meria

The first time I saw Meria she was in a small, neighborhood food store off Seventh Street.  It was the sort of place with only three varieties of cereal, loaves of bread you'd better check the date on, and a half-counter display of freshly cut flowers.  Only two aisles, both so narrow that the little wire-mesh shopping basket the store provided had to be carried in front of you.  I was there to pick up dinner, maybe a frozen pot pie or one of those supposedly healthy, plastic-plate entrees.  Meria was looking over the fruit display, her graceful hand wrapped around the textured curves of a cantaloupe.

My attention went to an intricate but indecipherable design which covered the back of her hand and disappeared up a silky sleeve cuff held fast by three pearl-colored buttons. 

  "You can't tell if a melon is fresh by squeezing it," I said.  "You have to look at the color.  That one's kind of green."

At first Meria didn't seem to realize I was talking to her.  Her face turned my way and her eyes swept upward from my neck to my smile.  "Excuse me?"  She spoke with an accent I couldn't place.

"The melon.  I don't think it's quite ripe yet.  Maybe the one next to it."  I picked up the cantaloupe with better color and offered it to her.  She glanced at the melon, my throat, then directly into my eyes.

"Thank you," she said softly in the sweet tones I had hoped for.  She took the melon and placed it in her shopping basket. The design on the back of her left hand matched the one on her right.  And only then did I notice a small band-like pattern of symbols crossing her forehead just below her hairline.  For a moment I stared at her, those deep blue eyes, the brown-blonde hair she wore loose and free.

"Uh, you're welcome," I finally remembered to say.  "About the advice, I mean."

That was our beginning, Meria and me.  From that afternoon on we were all but inseparable.  I invited her back to my place and made her dinner.  My recipes are the basics, nothing fancy, nothing that takes a lot of time, but Meria complimented everything, even commented favorably on my apartment.  She seldom spoke of herself.
"You know," I said one night a week or so later over a simple dessert of chocolate mint ice cream, "I don't even know your last name.

That enchanting smile took over her delicate features and she whispered, "Eria.  My name is Meria Eria.  Do you think it odd?"

The word weird was on my tongue, but I shrugged and agreed.  "Yes, kind of odd, I guess.  A little anyway."

"Where I'm from it's quite a common name.  Like Smith or Jones here."

I glanced across the table and asked, "And where are you from, Meria Eria?"

Her spoonful of ice cream paused at her lips.  Her eyes met mine and stayed.  "The stars," she said and smiled again. I laughed and turned away.  "Like some mysterious woman from my dreams?"

She put the spoon back into her bowl and thoughtfully stirred near the edge of her dish where the ice cream had begun to melt. 

"No, really."

When I turned back, Meria's gaze was still locked exactly where it had been when I had asked the question.  She looked too serious.

A bit uncomfortable now, I shifted my attention to her hands.  "That explains the tattoos.  Some royal designation, no doubt."  I played along, thinking it the best way not to fall victim to her fantasy game.  "Don't tell me, you're a princess, right?"

She shook her head.  "I was.  Until the rebellion.  The latest communication from my home world tells me I'm now a queen." "A queen.  Good one.  I mean, nice promotion."

She thanked me.  Quite sincerely.  It was all a bit unsettling.

I was getting jumpy about then and injected what I thought to be a touch of mood-leveling humor.  "Just so your people aren't planning to conquer Earth?"

She ate a slow spoonful of the chocolate mint, then let her eyes meet mine, again by way of my throat.  "Not conquer.  Share.  There's room here, resources enough for all of us.  You are billions; we are mere thousands by your counting."

I sat there stunned.  Meria was sounding way too serious about all that interplanetary nonsense.  In silence she finished her ice cream, occasionally looking at me as if to read my thoughts.

Before I could recover and move on to a more sensible topic of conversation, Meria had come around the table and seated herself on my lap, her soft lips exploring the contours of my neck.  One finger lifting her chin, I kissed her and she kissed me in a way we had never kissed before.  Up until that night we had traded friendly kisses, I-care-about-you closeness.  But this was passion, hot and real and pulsing.

In the dancing glow of a single candle I saw Meria for the first time.  Her back, her arms, her legs, and her breasts all displayed designs similar to those on her hands.  At first I was shocked, taken aback by this surprising density of living art.  But Meria was perfect.  The night was perfect.  My concerns faded.

At least, that is, until morning's light.

When Meria, amid an anthem of joyful sighs, gave birth to our first child.  A daughter. Beautiful.  Perfect.  And covered in the same intricate markings as her dear mother. 

Email: Don Hornbostel

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