“Come closer, my darling; there’s but little time between us, and my voice is a fading star. Lean across these covers to take my hand and feel my breath about your ear, like before. Do you remember the hour you gave me this voice — your voice, darling — how for years I hardly used it for fear of poisoning your generosity? Your muteness at my expense…it breaks the whole of me, darling, maddens me, even now, not knowing what your voice might shout inside my throat!”




It was a short promontory jutting over the icy cape below, its surf like a thousand china shops shattering. The couple spoke loudly over the tumult, each stopping at some psychically predetermined point where they planted folding chairs beneath a crystalline pelt of stars. Shortly she saw the first ones–snowflakes like dust motes against the dark–before the summer flurry lost all inhibition.  It lasted less than ten minutes, a freak, beautiful spattering hijacking their quintessential August night, and still, years later, when their own winters took hold, they remembered.



She walks through the park with a homemade lunch. It’s a boisterous afternoon–the lawns swarm with picnickers and “Tag, you’re it!” kids. She passes a man-shaped stamp of shaded grass which rises and locks arms beside her. They reach the public fountain, where she unpacks her meal and he picks her his flowers.