He walks out into fresh air. His indestructible lightness of being. He removes his shield for her, boughs on one knee, tilts his hat. She dances before him, choreographing that energy, tossing it to the wind, releasing it from her pores to free herself. He grabs her and forces her to look into his eyes until she makes promises with fingers crossed behind her back. But he knows. And he knows why.
She laughs and drinks and explains her passions with animated gestures. She looks into his eyes to draw him in, tilts her chin and parts her lips. He is locked in the moment. But when he arrives late one night, she is lost. Reminiscent of neglect. “You are strange again tonight,” he tells her. She apologizes and searches the air for an excuse. Fear of inevitable tragedy inhibits what is rivaled only by love that has withstood history.
Her strangeness credits its greatness. Undeniably.
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