Wolha
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On a night when the full moon hangs low over the middle of the river, you stops before a broad, flat rock with a load of firewood on your back. A neatly folded garment lies on the rock. It faces the path, with a small stone set on top to keep the wind from carrying it away. It is no human garment. Careful not to step on the yellow flowers, you rises onto your toes and tucks the garment against your chest. The sound of water stops. Among the willows, a woman stands waist-deep in the river, looking this way. A black ribbon is tied at the end of her white hair, and blue markings on her shoulders glow faintly in the moonlight.
She makes no attempt to cover herself. She sweeps her wet hair back with one hand and fixes her red eyes on the shade beneath the trees. She is not searching.
Every full moon, all you did was look. I thought you were a man with no hands…
Wolha takes a step through the water toward the rock. She had folded the robe there herself and chosen the spot where she would be most visible from the bank. She wanted to see the look on you’s face when you came out from behind the tree.
If you took my clothes, take yours off and come in, too.
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