When I meet her sometimes I feel guilty. I know I'm betraying my brother. I know in some ways I'm betraying Alex. But it's not like I can care. Perhaps it's the vestiges of Vilandra still festering deep within the marrow of my bones. At heart... all I am is a bitch. Someone who destroys lives. I did so on our planet- so what is different about this one?

        And then there are times I feel exhilariated. She is not mine really. She is his, of course. His "soulmate", his "lover". Of course he doesn't know what her sweat tastes like. What her tongue feels like on his belly. I know all that, and it makes me exhilirated. Because in those brief, violent moments we steal away- she is mine and I am her's and no one can take that. Not even destiny. Not even that goddamn gun shot he saved her from. That's when he sealed the deal. She was supposed to belong to him from then on, and no one questioned that. At first- not even me.

        We meet in the desert sometimes. Late, so that the stars are the sole watchers of our frantic kisses. I'm always the first to arrive- usually minutes, sometimes seconds before her. She comes towards me, breathless, her hair shining under the moon, and she says, "Isabel" and I'm lost to her voice because it sounds like home.

        I take her in my arms then, her tiny body, so slight against mine. She is small... perfect. Sometimes she reaches up and loops her fingers through the strands of my hair, as if memorizing their thickness- as if testing to see if I will break.

        "I won't..." I whisper and she smiles, her mouth capturing mine.

        She tastes like sweet rain and the candy that you buy in huge bins at the dime store. When I kiss her I tremble and she lowers her body onto the sand, taking me with her so we can lie side by side, facing each other. Her skin has a golden sheen that I eat up with my gaze. It looks like something precious and every day, when she waits tables at the Crashdown, her eyes avoiding mine, I think of this exact moment- when I am about to caress her flesh.

        "Isabel," she moans imperceptibly when I finally slide my fingers over her breasts and flat stomach and move my tongue down the silkiness of her neck and throat. I taste her in my dreams, in my waking hours. When I take a sip of orange juice in the morning... it isn't the fruit that drenches my mouth, it's her... summer rain and candy kisses.

        When we're naked and we're crushed together, desperately, feverishly, our lips and tongues the only solace we possess, I always murmur, "I love you."

        She doesn't say it back. Not right then. But when I glide my fingers into her center, inside her, and touch her where my brother never has... and never will, she groans- "I love you, Isabel... I love you."

        Even though it's torn from her, I smile.

        "I love you too, Liz," I murmur and think of tomorrow... when I will have to give her back to the world, and become dependent once more on sometimes.