Hansel’s Redemption
Years later, the witch burned and gone, the wilderness tamed, Hansel fell in love with his sister one night, watching how she undressed like some rare orchid beyond the chain lock of his hippocampus. For months afterward, he denied himself, taking extra hours at the saw mill so he could avoid seeing her flutter about the crumbling gingerbread house they’d inherited. This isn’t real, he told himself. Just a misdirected echo from when we hugged naked in mother’s oven, feeding off the dark. But each day it got stronger. Finally, he confessed. I’ve always loved you, too, she whispered over her third glass of blackberry wine. Always. Her Victoria’s Secret nightgown fell like a discarded mask atop his workman’s apron. We can’t stay here, Hansel said. The villagers won’t understand. So they made up new surnames, packed fishing rods and drove to Alaska, along the way necking at rest-stops like runaway sea horses. There’s nothing wrong with this, Hansel promised. Love is love. Besides, we’re not the first. I read somewhere that Egyptian pharaohs married their sisters to preserve the sanctity of the bloodline. That doesn’t sound very romantic, Gretel said, and wiped the cold from his nose.
