At the end of the story

At the end of the story, he asked her, like he always did. “And what am I in this story?” And she answered, like she always did, “what do you want to be?”

The story was about a butterfly and a thunder cloud that were in a fierce race to the end of the world. He thought about it. It was a trick question and she always had a better answer. This was definitely another trap, so he tried to reason. “What could I be? The thunder cloud had only one way to go, the butterfly could both rise and fall.”

She looked at him, “you are the clear blue sky on the morning after.” It was their ritual. He could be anything. She could make him anything. The two were always different things.

He remembered another night. Last year, after the rains. Another story. This one was about light and sound in a bitter fight. Light wanted to be heard. Sound wanted to be seen. They couldn’t decide who could be greater. Who would end up stronger.

“Who am I in this story?”

“Who do you want to be?”

He wondered if silence was more awful than darkness. Or if an endless night could be made more bearable by a whisper.

“Who should I be? Wouldn’t you know me even if you couldn’t see me? Hear me?”

“You are time.”

Her breath was warm against his face. Today, it was a tragic story. The moon had a child as bright as the sun. When the child was awake, night turned to day and the moon disappeared. Only when the child was asleep, the moon could appear. They could never be together in the same sky. He frowned. Her breath grew warmer. He frowned harder.

“Who am I in this story?”

“Who do you want to be?”

Whose grief was greater? Who could bear it better – moon-mother or sun-child? He didn’t want to know the answer.

“What can I be?”

“When creation is flawed, you must become greater than the mistake.”

He held her closer. She was burning. Who was he? Who was she? Why?

“I want to be god.”