Sometimes she still does not believe, despite all the proofs, despite the bow and the bed, despite the reflections of her son in his face, that Odysseus has truly returned to her, that this rangy stranger who walks beside her might be the same man who left her a long score of years before.
Each moment of silence that passes between them reinforces it, for when was he ever silent, her king, he who chattered like a magpie, who loved the sound of his own voice above all things other than her own? Until - he looks at her sideways, slant, and says in a voice brimming with innocence, “I could use a new tunic, wife - will you weave me one?” and then, oh, then she knows him as her own trickster even as he breaks, even as the lines in his face come alive with laughter (even as he kisses away the protest of her open mouth, swallowing her suppressed giggles as a man starved).
If I Didn’t Know You (Greek Mythology, Odysseus/Penelope)
Each moment of silence that passes between them reinforces it, for when was he ever silent, her king, he who chattered like a magpie, who loved the sound of his own voice above all things other than her own? Until - he looks at her sideways, slant, and says in a voice brimming with innocence, “I could use a new tunic, wife - will you weave me one?” and then, oh, then she knows him as her own trickster even as he breaks, even as the lines in his face come alive with laughter (even as he kisses away the protest of her open mouth, swallowing her suppressed giggles as a man starved).