The Other Hand
She's so beautiful, I can't stand it.
The other day, despite Inuyasha's flagrant objections about losing precious minutes in wiping that blot called Naraku off the face of the earth, we set out to exterminate yet another youkai giving local village peasants a hard time. Inuyasha brightened a little when the beast turned out to be an overgrown wolf demon bearing an unflattering resemblance to Kouga, but it was Sango who took it down for good.
Swift, precise, deadly—with all the alluring grace and beauty of a dancer. Her eyes narrow, and her lips tighten a certain way whenever she reaches for the Hiraikotsu. Her whole body tenses like a readily drawn bow-string: taut, with every muscle fiber prepared for battle. Even after it's all over, she always stands with one foot slightly ahead and apart from the other in a natural state of balance, fine-tuned by years of conscious training, the culmination of which hasn't even a trace of thought to show for.
Only perfect, unmitigated instinct.
I don't recall exactly when it was that I began taking an interest in her. Though many are fooled by my priestly appearance, I do, in fact, have something of a roaming eye. I've yet to confess this to my dear comrades, but then again, why shatter the happy illusion of integrity?
Anyway. Sometimes—actually, more often than not—I find myself really wanting to reach out and touch her, just to make sure this isn't some sort of perpetual fantasy. So I do. But I always come away assured. It must have something to do with the astoundingly persuasive beat-downs that inevitably follow.
But about these tender marks across both sides of my face and various places on the back of my head: I'm proud to wear them as battle scars of our hard-fought love. Or maybe, just her love for me, since it's obvious she's already all over me like Shippo on candy. But actually, aside from my dashing good looks, my natural charisma, and my irresistibly sharp wit, I really don't know why she wants me. When all is said and done, it's true that she deserves someone better. Like a handsome, wealthy, and good-natured prince who has adored her since childhood.
Too bad we left that sucker behind ages ago.
Still, all things aside, I find myself meditating more and more often these days. I sit in solitude on the grassy slopes hidden at a distance from where we stay the nights, and wait. Sometimes, in the lull of a gentle breeze or the rustle of the surrounding trees, I sense that she has passed by, or that she's looking for me. But it could be the shadow of my ever-conscious longings that haunt me with her presence, and not actually her. I wonder. Sometimes I give into the urge to break meditation and open my eyes in the direction where she seems to watch me, only to find that I've lost her again, and all peace of mind that might have been attained if only I had had the discipline to remain steadfast in the pursuit of forgetting myself.
Almost like I've been faithful to the pursuit of saving myself from this hole in my hand.