They enter from opposite ends of the circle: he in antlers and bare chest, she shrouded in shadow.
A flute sings. They join hands and dance.
Their dance ended, she reaches into his chest. He gives an involuntary, back-of-the-throat groan, and falls back.
Over him, she opens her hand: an apple, pulsing in the firelight. I wince at the juicy squelching noises as she cuts it up.
The pieces pass. We eat. On my palate, dull from fasting, the juice sings like autumn rain.