It's been lonely here at the palace. Everyone's eyes have been on me, even more than the usual scrutiny, the daily barrage of paparazzi, the ubiquitous assault of reporters, jesters, the like. Everyone needs to see how I'm holding up. I've had to look my best, make sure all the zippers are zipped, the corsets tied, buttons buttoned, the powder applied just so. It was not easy, being in a daze like I've been. My attendant, Alumax, said I looked like hell, and if anyone knows how I look, it’s she.

"You'll get over it" she recites every morning, trying to reassure, while she fits and fluffs the royal wig on my head. I tune out the rest of what she says; it's always about her husband, the former gatekeeper, who passed away last spring. And of course she is "over it" now, and has already taken up with one of the young scribes.

But, see, I know there's no getting over Zzmykksa. You only experience love like that once in a lifetime. And without it, what use is there?

I just didn't know how I was going to last in a world that had suddenly gone grey. No one knew me like Zzmykksa, no one saw or cared like she had. It wasn't just the sex. Everyone assumes that a courtesan's expertise is in the bed chamber, and, yes, it was true that she had studied Kundalini yoga in the courts of East Bhutan, and, yes, she was fantastic, but it was never as simple as her love making. She could please me in all ways, tell a great joke, sing like a bird. Knew how to tease me about my foibles.

That's what I mourned for, that sweetness. I thought it had been snatched from the earth. But you see, that's what I've now discovered, right here, right under my nose. It happened Tuesday when I was out for a stroll in the royal garden with the Prime Minister. In the middle of his briefing me about the Romanian invasion, I heard Z say, Madame, I am here! It was the voice of my beloved, coming from the throat of a common primrose. See? It had to be her…anyone else might have announced herself by way of something showy…a Casablanca lily, for example. But not my Z, she hailed a hearty "hello" from the realm of the ordinary…so that I would understand…so I could see just how available she could make herself.

BIA LOWE's essays and stories have appeared in many magazines and journals, including Salmagundi, The Kenyon Review, Harper's, Ms, Witness and the webzine Killing the Buddha. Her first book, WILD RIDE won the QPB New Visions Award for creative nonfiction. She currently lives in Mattituck, New York, where she is co-owner of The Old Mill Inn, and where she is cobbling "Unified Field," a collection of tales, some of which appear here.