Was it stolen? It was not; it was seized and belonged to the seizer. If it eluded everyone else’s attention, she did it service by letting it go unknown, unlived. She–a mere recorder of what he was recording, many times removed from the fact but the only one capable of lending word to his deed. And his deed was only to be found in his word: nothing done that was not retold in a story embellished over a process she affronted, though sometimes blindly revered as we all do supposed mysteries, or those things we can’t ourselves reach and don’t firsthand know.
It was so with words that he would build a room with many windows and no view, curtains drawn so as to sit in the privacy of that construct. It did not occur to him to eliminate onlookers, maybe liking the thought of being secreted in front of others right in their own world’s center.
It was here where they would reliably encounter each-other, sit with books alap and read with fervor, touch arms on purpose like it was not on purpose. It was on the border of this dreary center, on a night so torrid and gusty that it inverted her best umbrella, that she learned the story’s end–an end to a truth she could only contingently spin over his.
He invented the discomfort of the season so as to provoke closeness.The puddles were black and the rain blacker. The denunciation of his own sensitivity. The near-tear jerk. The truest way to speak to the vanquished moment.