How dare he. How dare he deny me.

I stood there as it replayed in my mind like a cruel memory: the look in his eyes, the recoil of his body, the feeling of his weight as he struggled; how I almost fell backwards as I clutched at his cloak and he got free of it. The disbelief in my mind as I watched him run away, his footfalls echoing in the hall until I could see him no longer. I always, always get what I want, and my mind could not understand what just took place.

Sweat started to form on my brow and my breath became quick and ragged. His cloak felt heavy in my hands, but not because of the cloth; it was heavy with guilt and shame. I looked down at the accusing garment, my eyes blurring as the tears formed, threatening to fall down my cheeks. If my husband found out… if anyone found out…

The pain of rejection started to wane as it gave way to something else. Heat rose up from the bottom of my womb, until it reached my face, and what burned inside of me was a mixture of fear and shame and anger. This will not do, this will not happen – not to me.

I felt the indignation rise up and overcome my mind. Could you even blame me for what I felt? From the moment I saw him, I knew I had to have him. I had never seen a man so beautiful before, strong and young and ripe for the taking. He always seemed so serious, so eager to serve; it fueled my desire even more. My eyes lingered on him each time he entered the room. I felt things that were unfamiliar—a yearning in my body, my mind going silent except for the desire that sounded like a rushing river.

Not once did I feel that for my husband, who only inspired fear. The people called him the butcher in hushed tones out of his presence. He may be the chief of the king’s guard, but we knew what it truly meant: he is an executioner. Despite all the power he held, he never had me in this kind of grip.

I even deigned to know this slave’s name by heart. Yosef. It was delicious when whispered, and I spoke it silently whenever I could. I would utter it under my breath, envisioning it rolling off my tongue and into his ear. Every day I asked myself, Is it wrong when it is my spirit that yearns? Is this not the desire and will of the gods coming alive in my being? This longing was almost despair, and as much as I tried, nothing could put out the flames.

I cannot remember the moment I decided I would act on it. Perhaps I fed the desire so often that it grew stronger than my will. I found ways to touch him, to get close enough that I could feel his heat. In the beginning it would be soft grazes, touches disguised as nothing. I would catch his eye, but he never looked into mine the way I needed him to. If only he would let me, I would free him.

Potiphar could see that he was special, touched by the gods, or whatever god it is he worships. He was given control over all matters concerning our household, my household, and everything he touched and did prospered. There was something that came before him, an otherworldly countenance. Even our other servants were not spared! They would cut their hands as they peeled oranges, their minds distracted by his presence.

But this was my property, my home. He may have been given power over many things, but I still ruled above him. When my gazes did nothing, when my touches did not elicit a response, I knew I had to make it clear. I wanted him and I will not be ignored. Again and again and again I cooed sweet words at him, to lure him into my bed. Again and again and again he refused me. I cannot do this wicked thing against my master and against my God, he would say. I promised him everything— my body, my soul, my riches. Still he stood his ground and did not give in.

The most opportune time came on a day when all of the servants had taken their leave, save for he and I. Lie with me, I told him.

He backed away. I will not.

I lunged forward. Lie with me!

And this is where I find myself now, alone, humiliated, angry.

He should have not denied me. He should have joined me in my bed. How dare he. This disrespect cannot stand. There is only one thing I can do.

So I took the cloak, walked into the middle of my courtyard, and I screamed.

---

The days passed. Days that felt like they would never end. Then the days became weeks. Months. Years. Time moved both slowly and quickly, solid in my grasp like desert sand and just as swiftly blown away.

The years that passed were not kind. My husband and I were insulated from the woes that plagued the common people, but the famine in egypt was not as hopeless as the famine in my heart. The darkness in my home grew and grew until I no longer saw any light. The landscape of my land changed drastically and I seem to have aged much sooner than I expected.

O, would that my body be young again.

I watched the curtain move in the breeze. Slivers of golden light streamed in through the waves of the cloth. There is not much I can do these days except watch life go by, as my body has grown feeble and my mind tired. The heat of the sun was unforgiving, and what little breeze came through my window was but little relief. As the sun set outside, I stood up from my bed and walked to my window. I watched the river Nile change colors in the distance, and beyond it, the Pharaoh’s palace. I felt a familiar pang in my heart, one that has visited me more often as the end of my days drew near.

As the sun descends into the river and the world turns into a deeper hue, I am reminded of the darkest day of my life; the only day I have ever allowed myself to regret.

My bones began to protest, and I walked to my chair to sit. In the silence, I allowed the darkness outside to crawl into my chest and overcome my mind. I no longer have the strength to fight my memories; it is much easier to let myself get carried away.

As if it were yesterday, I once again felt the weight of the cloak in my hands, the ache in my throat as I screamed, the hot tears on my face. Something in my soul told me to stop then, to walk away, but my pride would not let me hold back. Instead, I told the men in my household of a crime that never took place; a deed so heinous that I was sure my husband would have Yosef killed for it.

Yosef. How that name used to fill me with delight. And yet I still found myself cursing it and damning him to what I was sure would be the end of his life. He defiled me! I said as loudly as I could. He violated his master! Find him!

This part of my memory is a blur. Guards. Screams. Anger. But there was one thing that did not happen that filled me with rage— Potiphar did not execute him. He instead let him languish in the Pharaoh’s prison for years, where he thought Yoseph would be forgotten and lost to time. I never quite understood why, or perhaps I did but could not accept it. My husband either felt a deep fondness for him that he could not cast aside, or maybe he knew the truth. Perhaps he took one look at me and my eyes betrayed me and my lie. Even after everything, even when the dust settled, we never spoke of it again. We lived the rest of our lives with a chasm between us that we were never able to close, even until his death.

This used to fill me with an anger so deep that it disturbed my slumber. I would walk the halls of my house in the night, burning with rage, like a ghost howling in dark corners, unheard and unseen. I did not understand it then, but now, in my old age, I realize that it was not Potiphar’s favor that was upon him. He really did have his god’s ear, because even in jail he could not be held back from rising to the top. Perhaps that same god used me to propel Yosef, my fall from grace an inevitable part of whatever divine design rules us in this mortal plane. Or maybe he was the kind of god who stayed and kept his eye on his people, so no evil would prevail against them.

I turned my head to look upon the Pharaoh’s palace. It was like a jewel in the desert, alight with flames and celebration. That’s where he lives now, second to the highest ruler in the land. All because he could interpret the Pharaoh’s dreams! Those dreams that showed tragedy and death that allowed him to act in wisdom. The dreams that saved our people from years and years of unimaginable famine and hunger. Rightfully so, Yosef the slave has become a beloved leader, celebrated by everyone in the land, prospering like the stars in the night sky.

There, in the dark of my room, I sat staring out my window. I am much too tired to feel vengeful, yet much too weary to feign indifference. The only thing I am now is an old woman with waves of regret, looking over at the river Nile, longing for a life that never was.