was not so young as he had appeared from the sky. Thirty, perhaps, maturely muscled, well formed, powerful, innocently turning, as I watched, to lie on his side. He pillowed his cheek on his large, folded hands just before they branched into fingers.
In the middle of his forehead, he had a single black curl—like a question mark. He was beautiful. So as to cast no shadow over his face, I dropped to all fours and crawled toward him over the twiggy orchard floor. From under my knees, I heard the soft, betraying pops of breaking twigs.
I would join rather than disturb his repose. In sleep, I, too, would take on flesh whole and perfect, smooth as myth.
Lying down beside him, I turned myself so as to nestle against his side, but I kept the burned part of my back away from making contact with his chest. For a moment I feared my singed hair with its repugnant odor might disturb his sleep, but he sucked in air all the stronger, as though he were not afraid to breathe hellfire and brimstone. My buttocks found a place to fit roundly against his warm loins.
PART TWO
MESOPOTAMIA
ADAM OPENED HIS eyes from an afternoon nap and saw that from his own body, here in the sunshine of Mesopotamia, God had created his helpmeet. The place where she had been joined to his chest was a raw wound between her shoulder blades. He himself was as intact as ever. Her buttocks were warm, sweaty, against his loins, and he drew back from her. His member was as beautifully relaxed as that of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
As her own life awoke in her, she began to stir. Adam looked around quickly to see if he might have a daylight glimpse of God himself retreating from his handiwork, perhaps stepping into the deep shadows of a grove of trees. Always, always before now, God had come to Eden in the cool of the evening, in the hushed mystery of dying light, when dusk veiled vision. But the God of his childhood, for whom Adam still longed, had been a forthright god of sunshine, or rain, and diurnal weather. That God of childhood had wanted the brightness of noonday about him—that pinnacle in time when equality spread out on all sides, and objects tucked their shadows under themselves as securely as hens sat on their nests.
But here she was, even if God was gone. She was not young. She was not thin. Her skin lacked the luster of freshness; gray, sometimes a thread of bright silver, was to be found among the dark brown hair of her head. Her face? Because she lay on her side with her (mostly) dark hair splashing across her cheek, he could only study her profile. Ordinary: a straight nose, a smallish chin but a rather nice jawline. Could she have been the age of his mother? Probably so, if his mother had mated young. And this woman was marred, or at least hurt. Not only was there the raw patch between her shoulder blades, big as the palm of his hand, but also, he saw now, on the back of her head, another ugly, raw patch, the size of his thumb and forefinger brought together in a circle. Her hair was burned off to the scalp, charred black like the remains of a campfire. Around the bad spot her hair was frizzled, broken, and burned. She was damaged; God had left damaged goods on his doorstep.
But then, too, so was he.
And had he ever known a single person whom life had left undamaged?
Didn’t we all deserve each other and nothing better? Suddenly he wanted to draw her, the char circle like a crown slipped down the back of her head.
How had Michelangelo rendered Eve on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? God had brought Eve, looking frightened, behind him, enfolded in a flare of his blue robe. Had God’s fiery hand touched this Eve’s reluctant back, shoved her toward Adam?
A garter of sand encircled both her legs just above the calves. Sparkles in the yellow grit glinted in the light, ornamental and pretty. Perhaps she had risen from an older mythology—Venus rising from the sea, marked with rings of sand around her legs.
Adam licked one finger, reached down, and pressed the finger against her sandy skin. Numerous grains stuck to his wet finger, and he brought them to his lips, his finger like an offered Popsicle. He licked