The Skeleton Bull

'I've been calling you for two weeks now,' he voices disapproval.
'I am sorry, I was on vacation.'
'I see.'
'Yes. In Sinai,' I wonder who this man is across the satellite. 'Can I help you?'
'I doubt it,' he intones a smile. 'I have a package for you.'
'A package for me?' what the hell, I'm an abandoned case, no one sends me anything. 'Where from?'
'Uzbekistan.'
That name rings a thousand bells, beats a hundreds gongs, blows a million trumpets.
'You're shitting me!'
'I shit you not, young lady.'
'Oh, I am sorry,' I blush over the receiver. I have countless questions, but I opt for the simplest: 'When may I pick it up?'
'Any evening at your pleasure, I'd be delighted to meet one of Rotem's friends.'

I take the bus to Tel Aviv. I'm fidgeting with my ticket, my hair, my dress, my whole self is twisting with excitement. I got a package. I got, and y'all suck!
Last I've heard of her, she was heading to Uzbekistan. Why? Because it's what she does. She heads to a place, raises some hell, heads to the next place, arouses some demons, heads the next. She should have a Master of Arts by now, in Global Hellraising.
Everybody said she shouldn't go anymore, that she's half dead, that she's irresponsible. I could just hear her saying, 'I don't give what everybody says', and stuffing her backpack, marching down the road, jutting out a thumb.

A very fancy Tel Aviv villa. This guy must be loaded. He is an Italian in his early 50's, one of those men born with quality, who know how to wine-taste from birth. He's glad to meet me, would I like something to drink, beautiful Fall we're having, his son is in the air force, could he interest me with some –
And I look up, and I am so sad and needy and want my package, now, now!
He gives me the manila-covered parcel, soft content. I unwrap it.
It's a beautiful afghan blanket, with patterns and flowers - the Moonflower. I need to cry. One of the bordering patterns is actually painted, as if an afterthought, with handprints. I inspect it, size the marks against my own hand, and I recognize it.
'It's her blood,' I tell him, not shocked.
He scrutinizes it; he dons fine silver-framed glasses. 'It could be,' he agrees.
'I know blood when I see it!' I insist.
I remember her wiping her face and painting the walls with her dark life.

There is a note. It says:
"First Woman,
Don't be fooled. I didn't make this blanket. This other woman did. She milked a goat, rode a horse, slaughtered the goat and cooked its meat under the saddle. In her free time, she made you this. Her free time is now yours.
Happy Birthday. All the free time in the universe.
Be aware that I love you.
Which means I think of you.
Rotem, and Wolf."

'Who's Wolf?' the Italian inquires.
'Clueless here, but it might mean a mate, though. A male one. If she said "Alpha" it's like codename for a fuckgal.' I blush grandly. He chuckles.

He shows me a painting she made for him. It's nearly five feet across, depicting a bull. It's made entirely from earth, mud caked with her natural passion. He tell me he had it especially sprayed so it won't crumble, and hung to the wall in a slant, using metal wedges, so it won't disintegrate down.
'Everything she makes is very fleeting, very evolutionary, recyclable.' He notes. We gaze at the aggressive beast, and he dims the light. 'Look now,' he says. I can't see anything unusual, so he points out that now it looks like the skeleton of a bull. He darkens the room further, and indeed, a jagged anatomy appears, a dead bull standing.
'I have to go now,' I tell him.

I sit on a bench somewhere, burying my face in the bloody blanket, and cry like I haven't in all those long arid months. I weep and smell the prairies; I sob and taste the blood.
Somebody is thinking of me. Which means they love me.