You.

I know you meant what mattered most in some little vignette. You wanted me to tell you a story and then sum it up. A fable would have done nicely. But I went cosmic on you, and I give you here the answer:

You.

The thing is, most folks really don’t want the answer. They want questions. Doug Adams will know that. He’ll give his answer, 42, in hitchhiker’s guides. But he won’t give the question (What’s 6 times 6 plus 6?).

Most folks give answers and want questions.

My father had a hundred children; I understand large families. My siblings were like a city state. We were all fair-skinned and prone to sunburn and we were mostly light-eyed; only seven of us were dark-haired as kids. We were all royal and we were generally mediocre. History only remembers four percent of our names.

I was one of the few dark-haired dark-eyed sisters. I was the only one who competed with my brothers, in foot races and wrestling. I did well, too; I charmed most of the men with my athleticism and my daring. But the womenfolk tended to disapprove of me. Which drove me to be even more athletic and daring. I gravitated to the company of men.

In time I developed a male-type physicality. I didn’t become a nymphomaniac, but I grew comfortable with my body and used it to express my feelings. Sometimes I’d give a complicated hug to a guy I felt close to, and if that led to sex, well, I was okay with it. Most of the time, provided the players were both happy, those complicated hugs led to very good sex, the semi-public kind, fresh and frisky.

But I got in trouble the time I almost seduced a god. He was handsome to the point of perfection, nearly omnipotent, and he made it flatteringly clear how much he wanted me. I can envision him now: short golden curls above a smooth brow, around a chiseled face, piercing eyes, a smile at once warm and wicked, his body nearly hairless, almost perfect, velvet over steel. Big hands, square fingers, clean nails.

Oh yes. He had a way of looking at me across a crowd, when I felt like he and I were alone with a wire stretched taut between us. Thrum. A way of expanding that lovely chest as I approached, so his pectoral muscle became my center of visual orientation.

The night I met him he nearly had me, but I shied away at a critical moment. I let him put his arms around me and pull me to him, and I started to return his kiss, but then I found myself responding too fast and too deep; I pulled back. He coaxed and still I hesitated. Finally I agreed to meet him the following night. I remember his last kiss before we parted, sweet and a little lingering, with his throaty mumble about a gift. I walked away from him unsteady on my legs.