“Postcards from Eden” by Elle Pugh

My Darling Adam,

In a holy garden, why do we eat?

Why do we bathe, play, or love? Why do we make games for ourselves, why skip rocks on the indigo sea? Why do we lay next to each other? In a perfect world, why do I feel better when I am not alone? When you are off at work, combing the beach for shells or re-naming the lions and tigers and bears (which we have settled on over and over), I am empty. My strength returns when I’m near you, intertwined and wound together.

Is some pleasure bigger than others? If not, why am I, at the peak of the world and the cusp of civilization, the tallest mountain in the garden, unfulfilled by the perfect world. Why do I crave the largest pleasure, and why does He deny us?

In a garden, what does it mean to marry? Where were the guests, the officiant, the relatives? Were we born wed, tied together through our shared ribs? Did He Himself order us together, the lone spectator for our agrestral wedding in the floral field where I was born? What does it mean to be the only people, perfectly designed to fit together, like two halves of one forbidden fruit?

I never chose you, but what choice did I have? To walk in the garden, alone forever, crossing scorching deserts and wearing harsh winters and diving in rocky caves? How far could I walk before I ran into another person, sprung from the earth or grown from a lover’s bone? I was wed to you the moment I was born.

If I could have chosen, I am fairly certain that I would have chosen you. Out of the two men I am acquainted with, you are the most merciful and graceful. Of course,

that could be our predetermined connection speaking. My irritation with Him may be similarly connected with my frustration with the fact that all I’ve had to eat is pears and apples and grapes.

I’m not complaining, dear, just observing. It is an awful lot of fruit for one girl.

According to Him, I am the first girl. I came when you slept, slithering out of your chest, coiling around your body, an extension of yourself. If I came from your rib, where did you come from? Why did I require your tinder to light my fire? Surely, He created the whole world from nothing, I too, could be born from that very void, the blue sky created on the third day?

No. I am of Adam, for Adam, by Adam.

And, of course, he is mine, etc.

How long did you walk alone before I snaked my way out of your side? Months? Years? What does time mean without deadlines or commitments? Were you lonely before you met me?

You welcomed me with joy, but why wouldn’t you? I was you, once, and you have no shame over yourself, your image. You are His splendor.

Your devotion, to both He and I, is baffling, dear. I am awfully ungrateful. It is likely He is, too.

I should love to try a different fruit, to feel the juice between my teeth, let it dribble down my chin. I should take and lick and eat and have something entirely my own, the choice born from my own ribs. I would like to share with you, my love, my husband, an animal not yet named and a beast that is not yet tamed. I would coil myself around you like I did at our wedding, easier to feed you like this. We would relish in the decadence, the sinfulness, the rich pleasure of the forbidden. I would like to eat it off of you, and have you give me that pleasure in return. After, we would lay together and pray, wholly aware of our holy deficiencies.

I can see why the final fruit is so sinful. In a world where everything is in His image, it is to His advantage to hide our largest pleasures from us. What is a perfect garden, to us, intertwined the way we intended ourselves, no divine intervention required.

If I took one bite, I trust that you would join me. It is your way.

You are the loyal husband, and I, your long haired villainess. Your most tempestuous snake to name, and your most nagging rib to crack.

I’m having trouble getting over the rib thing.

If I climb the tallest mountain and look at the blue sky and the indigo sea, and if I cross the floral meadows and and the scorching deserts and the rocky caves, and if I greet every lion and tiger and bear, and I climb that great tree that has been so tempting for so long and look at His bright sun and pick a fruit, taking a long, slow bite, and spit out every seed in that delicious morsel of unadulterated pleasure, then sked, so kindly and gently, if I could share that with you, would you join me?

I hope you answer soon. This is my most urgent question. Your Lover,

Sweet Eve

Elle Pugh is a writer from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. She is pursuing a career in television writing