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Feign interest in commitment, and a woman will, first, jettison her desire for a perplexity then, slowly perhaps, her dawn, her sunset, are not yours. Always, the fires need their wood. It is our wooden wills that somehow quickly ossify into stone that sees the hearth grow cold. He is proud of his humility. He lies on his back pondering the night sky and the answers he thinks he sees. She is resigned to her needs. She lies in her bed, her needlework beside on a small table and the other side of the world is perhaps achievable. He wanders around the local zoo, and remembers when he was a child he was enchanted by the story of the okapi – now Africa is empty. She makes a late breakfast. Eggs, croissants, a mug of English breakfast tea. She remembers how a prince had shouted his possessive love. Do they need each other? Other moot questions float in the ether for days, years, errant centuries. |
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