He struggled against thought; a restless creature in the night, traveling along paths too foreign for the nomenclature of children. As usual, not wanting to blurt a negative answer; he gave up with a I'll get back to you on this. Was it the night she dreamt of falcons, he asks himself now.
Over a documentary on television, they took turns at their shot of commentating, often to hilarious effect. Like a child, he would pause every now and then, marveling at a spectacle onscreen. Though it was not part of their viewing, they would never again see dolphins in the same light.
The next day, he found out that there were no early tickets home. But waited she did, along with him - invisible; ineffable. His eyes set for any vacant seat which he could take up with his 9.30 p.m. ticket. She was holding his hand then, in the monoxide and terminal-confusion, as relentlessly as his will to go home; as relentlessly as her will for him to return.
It was a day short of the Ides of March.
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Wednesday, March 15, 2006
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