My husband lives on a stream.

#MyStory Our meetings are limited to once a year. We sit at the same old riverbend by the vendors of the Silk Road, sipping black tea from cracked pottery. He protects well our gift from the gods; a small wooden box housing the source of life itself. It sits among stones and lily pads, untouchable and barely visible, as the stream's gentle waters supply what the empty villages need. I drink more tea and watch him, his profile at work propped against the worn wooden side of the tent. When he was a soldier, I'd never dared dream of him like this. "What's your plan for the next war, soldier?" I ask. He sets down his cup. "I have no plan, wife." He leans over to touch my hair, his fingers tracing its smooth surface with a pop of static. No stray hairs, no frizz or flyaways. I'm a marvel of the Arts. "We should go home," he says. He has no skin, but the one hanging from his wrists and neck. A trail of veins spanning the color of a blue-purple summer sky. I imagine his bones, knobby and awkward, like the tree branches that scatter the nearby meadow. One day, I would like to see that skeleton in its entirety. "I should go home," I say, taking him in. "You shouldn't be here." He nods. "You're not like that anymore," I continue, "How do you keep up this form?" He swallows. "It's unfair, Arianna," he says. "I live here, far away from civilization. Strangers don't even notice. Soldiers pass by, directing carriages and calming horses. They don't understand the changes in the river or that someone else built the carousels on the hill. I don't have trouble keeping up appearances." He pauses, looking into the box as he swallows. "I'm sorry I didn't protect you." I step out of the tent and lift a hand and it freezes. The sun, the birds, the wind, all paused. Even the stream's gentle flow is suspended. After exhaling a deep sigh, I walk up to him. I take his face in my hands, as I did the first time we met, when skin lined his bone and I was still young and would follow him anywhere. "You protected me," I say. "The villagers have the stream, the land flourishes, and you're in charge." He lingers under my touch. "You protected me from the War, from the Artisans' cruelty. Your love made me strong enough to brave this life. I'm not angry with you." I replace my hand in its frozen state, and the world resumes its flow. "If my return is only to reminisce," he says. "Then I must rejoin my duties. You know how to find me when the need arises." I finish my tea and nod, standing to head back to the city. The target of the next war hasn't been determined, but I'm more prepared than I was for the last one. I won't let poppy oil curse the land. I won't let anything touch what my husband loves. I turn back to look at him, but the tent is already gone. He's back in the stream, alone and invisible. Safe under the safety of the Arts. We will meet again, husband. Until then, your stream's water will flow from my skin, and I'll protect it with life itself.

My husband lives on a stream.

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