Aryn wants too much. At least that is how he understands it, though she disagrees. Or rather she thinks it is not possible for anyone to want too much. We want what we want, she reminds him. The complicated part is accepting what we want.

Pacing on the other side of the door, pensive, anxious, needing, he reveals himself in the safety of the distance and she responds, invisible, from three thousand miles away.

The longing that she feels sweeps her up like the leaves being spun by the wind in the courtyard as she tries to sleep. They rattle against the concrete, and wind howls, and she cannot rest.

One day in the not so distant future their safe distance will be closed and they will each have a hand on the edge of a door, opened a crack between them, their own restlessness embodied in the rattling of knob and hinge.

Light spills over the threshold, a shared desire that ignores the boundary they both so carefully guard.

It fills the space between them as they lean toward one another, so careful to keep the door between them.

A long pause in their conversation. Then:

“Molly,” Aryn whispers. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” she answers. 

Another silence follows as she feels his weight against the door.

~ by Molly Montrevoir on December 22, 2008.

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