He throws it out there, he thinks, like a spark meant to illuminate a dark patch of field. He wants to show her that greener pastures lie beyond. He asks if she would consider relocating. He does not want her to stagnate.

Human conversations are unpredictable, astounding, spellbinding. It may be that lovers blindside each other, hence the astonishment, hence the potential for transformation.

Fascinated, she watches the flame’s lateral trajectory across space and understands that this is his way of teaching her to grow and move in tandem with the inevitable rhythm of human existence. She acknowledges the horizon and the vastness of its planes that he speaks of.

But the darkness of the field is inscrutable; neither of them can see into the shadow of what the other has not revealed of their lives. Timing is all. What he thinks is a field in darkness is in fact not solid ground, it is the surface of a pond.

She, like water, looks still on the surface. The force of her life’s currents are not visible to the naked eye, they move without the slightest ripple across the water’s surface. This is, perhaps, the essential stillness of convalescence and regeneration.

Is it perhaps the inexorable human in them that re-enacts ancient rites of passage when two bodies encounter each other again after a long time apart? It may be that one’s words, speech, articulation are the pale fire that sets the other’s heart aglow… just as it may be that the lover’s voice and breath become pelts of rain that give the beloved a curious melody to listen to when the lights go out at night…

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