He blamed me, but he didn't stop fucking me.
Most times, I didn't mind. I really couldn't mind -- he was the only other set of human eyes in the world, and it was dark and dead compared to Eden. We still got along all right, but there was a distance in him that was just as bittersweet as our first time under the tree.
After his body had spit into mine, he would collapse into my breasts, sigh my name once in resignation, and go tend to the fields.
In the Garden, he had been happy, and I had been happy to come from and be part of him. Now, he had withdrawn; I was a chestless bone wandering besides my flesh and blood.
The children had his Eden-eyes, the eyes he had before they took on the dull dust of Earth. It reminded me of the mossy patch beside two cores of fruit and knowing that we could die for these sins.
