A Story About Rapunzel. And Some Other People. But Mostly About Rapunzel...
an excerpt

It came upon them, lost in silence. After so much time, after Rapunzel’s artless, rousing caresses, after Benjamin’s continued rebuffs, his steadily weakening resolve with every motion, every small movement, tilt of her head…it came upon them quietly, unexpectedly, beautifully.

They had been having tea, that distinctive tea that Benjamin had come to look forward to. In this particular instance, with the dusk falling quietly, slowly in the background, he had the opportunity to savor the tea, to lean back and enjoy his position in the world, without fear of censure or royal interruptions, without anything except for this window, this room, this girl sitting across from him, this tea in his teacup. The tea…it was sweet, something sweet and honey like, but also with a touch of…cinnamon? Benjamin wrapped his head around this notion, trying to classify the exact scent, the exact taste, but then sighed after a time and let it go into the night, into the world of plucked dreams and half formed thoughts.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Rapunzel asked quietly after a while, as if she was unsure as to the correct words. She had heard him sigh, had seen him look about, his face contented, his manner open, and wanted to know what it was that he was thinking about, that made him so happy.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, smiling a smile that didn’t really have a purpose – he smiled because it was a lovely night, and because there was no reason not to. “Just…your tea, I suppose. I’d never thought about it before, but I realized that I’ve come to enjoy this tea very much, and I couldn’t place the flavor.”

“Tea…you don’t have tea out there in the world?” she asked, a slight frown creasing her brow.

“Oh, we have tea,” he said, laughing a little. “Just not tea that tastes like this – it’s quite distinctive, and I couldn’t decide what spice was used. Oh, it’s not important,” Benjamin said, waving aside Rapunzel’s attempt to speak, which would no doubt have been an explanation of the tea. “The point isn’t that I couldn’t place the flavor – I’m not really sure what the point is, I suppose. Perhaps that it doesn’t matter. That I enjoy this flavor, and it is enough to know that I do, and everything else is unimportant.”

Rapunzel opened her mouth, a small frown still burrowing her brow, but then closed it again. Perhaps she wasn’t sure what to say, for she wasn’t sure what Benjamin had meant. Which was all well and good, for Benjamin himself wasn’t sure what he’d meant. Instead, she looked down at her own empty teacup, and then out into the night, and then rose up out of her chair.

Taking a match from a small cupboard in one of the shelves, she lit a small, white tapered candle, and then walked to the wall, lighting the lamps that were hung up on the wall about the room. Benjamin sighed again, sipped the last of his tea and poured himself another cup, and watched Rapunzel move in the increasing lamplight, watched her hair falling over her shoulders and glinting in the light, inhaling the scent of the dusk blooming flowers that the wind carried into the room, feeling nothing less than completely at peace. This was it, he thought. This was life. This – a room, a cozy room, a good cup of tea, enough light to see yourself by, a beautiful woman as your companion…as your wife.

This thought, carried in so soon on the heels of that strange contentment in his tea, in the strange contentment that was this experience, this scene, struck at Benjamin somewhere deep within him. Surprised, he studied Rapunzel more closely, paying attention to the care with which she lit each lamp, the careful steps that she took across the floor, the certain half smile that curled her lips. Rapunzel…yes. Yes, he could marry her – this beautiful, wonderful girl, with her sharp mind, her open consciousness, that innocence that had so easily transformed itself into wonder, an intense wonder about the world out there…Benjamin could see stepping into his castle so easily with Rapunzel at his side, could imagine experiencing every small pleasure of the world anew with her at his side, watching her face as she tasted iced molasses candies, as she tilted her head and studied with an open frankness the customs of visiting dignitaries – she could be a fascinating wife, beautiful and thoughtful and so incredibly wondering.

Rapunzel, who had lit the last lamp, then turned and saw him looking at her, and smiled. She smiled at him, just smiled, and he felt his lips turning up as well, simply from watching her. There was no guile in her smile, no calculated spread of lips designed to milk jewels from his pockets, golden coins to buy trinkets, and for once, she didn’t question his gaze. She didn’t begin to speak probingly about sexual habits, about what his gaze might mean, about why he wouldn’t, why he couldn’t, why he absolutely refused to bed her, though he knew deep inside that this questioning, critical process of hers was one thing that he adored about her – she just smiled at him, that enchanting smile, and came back to the small table, setting the candle back in its place and sitting back down on her seat, and picking up her cup of tea once again.

Benjamin, for once, didn’t think. He didn’t stop to tell himself that he was in the wrong, that he would be destroying something heartbreakingly innocent, that he would become essentially a debaucher – instead, he simply leaned across the table, slowly, slowly, and kissed her.