Oh, if she had something to throw; to cause something to happen without anyone noticing. Because she has an audience. And now that she looks around, she sees that other men there have courted her in the past; she dismissed them and now here they are; a rough uncomfortableness rubs up against her skin. She feels like a leader, but who are her followers? What is she leading? She can't even get his attention, as of yet.
*********************************
It is late at night; he sits, unable to sleep. What to do, what on earth to do. He knows well what he must do, and he is scared slightly of going into that oblivious state; he has just said no to a perfectly nice girl who is here for the possible memory of someone else, which he knows is wrong; but he cannot help himself.
And so he sits alone, watching the indiscriminate blue turn into gray and then into blue again, bearing up his own obstinacy. His own foolishness. Perhaps he was gullible to trust her, perhaps not. In the meantime something flies and buzzes and glows, just out of his sight at first; an irritant more than anything. It has wings; it seems as restless and stubborn as himself. He watches it and feels lifted, enough to keep going. The sun rises, sweeping the gray away, the vivid pink fingers of that known rosy dawn are there, against the blue soft sky; he is hungry and better, resigned to much but not giving up, not on her, not on their house in the valley. Not until he knows.
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"Wakey wakey windypants, time to get up!" "I won't get up" he says, his face under the covers, "I was not...consulted." "HAH!" his friend laughs, "you know a little birdie - looked like an owl but what the hell do I know, said he'd seen her in town. At the club you know, that fancy place. She might be there tonight, who knows? Gotta get outta bed before long now." The sun's rays fill the room, obliterating all need for considerations. He yawns and gets up.
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He can hear her now; hear her invocation; her own stubbornness meeting his own hapless gentle qualities. He is the still pond next to her bonfire; or, more prosaically, she dances on the bed he built, as if the furious action alone will bring him back. She's right, he thinks, munching his cereal and listening to the birds hoot and chirrup to each other.
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The pulse of the day quickens; there is foment in the air, a fresh breeze. He has been passive for too long, a rule-abiding man, but there is virtue in that he feels; virtue in that if he breaks the rules, it must be for a very good reason. Does he mind suffering? Not if is for her, which is to say for himself. To him they are indivisible, her and him dancing, her and him sleeping, her and him just ambling down the street, open as a door to whatever is happening.
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"You know what, bro?," he says, eating his sandwich, "I have nothing at all to lose here. I have to be resigned - no I don't mean that in a bad way. As soon as I see her I can adjust, I'm like a damn thermostat that way. She can be the same way once she calms down, but when I see her she may not be calm at all. She may well be beating down a door somewhere or something. But I can't expect anything too much or we won't work out. I think I misunderstood her at times, you know, and she me. But it's worth working on. Always is."
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