Tell Me I'm Dreamin' by Eboni Snoe Page A

breathed, her eyes sparkling with the wonder of it.
    Despite the frostiness that had encapsulated his feelings, Ulysses had no choice but to warm to Nadine’s sincere appreciation of his beloved collection. “Right here in this room you will find the richest source of Eros’ history. But this collection,” he passed his hands across the leather bindings of several books before caressing a female statuette, “spans many centuries and tells much about people around the world, their lives, their dreams, and their beliefs.”
    Had the statue been a real woman, Nadine thought as she watched him, there would have been no doubt in her mind how much Ulysses loved and treasured her. As she gazed at the plethora of treasures Nadine discovered there was no need to ask Ulysses about the pieces that graced the second floor of his home. He began to talk about them out of a need born of pride and love, like a parent bursting to share the accomplishments of a cherished child. After a while, Nadine found herself joining in his recitations, citing periods and styles. Each one of them fed on the other’s enthusiasm and true appreciation for the paragons that surrounded them.
    Ulysses’ vast knowledge of his people and their artistic accomplishments enthralled Nadine, and he in turn had never had a more captivated audience. Any awareness of time dissolved, and the wall of mistrust crumbled between them.
    â€œThey look so real,” Nadine said as she looked at the ivory statue of a man stabbing himself above the limp body of a woman. “Pain and agony are so clear in his eyes, whereas her eyes and body convey death compellingly.”
    â€œYes, it is an old replica of the Dying Gaul.” Ulysses’ words were spoken in wistful tones. “It is a tangible example of pain and courage. It shows what a human being will do, knowing his enemy’s capacity for cruelty.”
    The pang in Ulysses’ voice as he spoke was unexpected. Nadine could tell from his posture, as he turned to look at the painting on the easel behind him, that it took extreme effort for him not to show his feelings, and yet she didn’t know if it were hurt or anger that he was trying to subdue.
    Nadine turned her attention to several marble statuettes displayed within a glass case behind lock and key. “These are lovely. They are most definitely Dionysian. There is such an erotic feel about all of them, and some of their hair is so close and tight to their heads, as if they were of African descent.”
    The first one was a nude Eros embracing and kissing a half-nude Psyche. The others featured men and women in several positions indulging in amorous pleasures.
    â€œThat is the one continuous theme that I have found throughout the artwork believed done here on the island, love and passion.” Ulysses crossed the space between them. “It is said that long before the settlers arrived, the island of Eros was actually named by the goddess Aphrodite after her son. And with the name, she cast the spell that all whoever lived here, even for the shortest time, would eventually taste its sexual pleasures in some way or another.”
    â€œIs there no other record connected with the name of the island?” Nadine asked, suddenly feeling giddy, the heady sensation brought on by Ulysses’ tale and his close proximity.
    â€œNone that we know of.” His voice plunged to a seductive purr as he came even closer. “There is no reason to be afraid of yourself, Nadine. I watched the change that came over you while you danced in the sugar fields. I know that your battle is not with me, but with what you Americans call your convictions. Here on Eros, the island of love, the only conviction is not to deny yourself pleasure. Take it if it is offered to you.”
    He raised his hand to caress her cheek, allowing the back of it to trail down the curve of her jaw, only to open his palm to softly stroke her slender throat