I sit cross-legged at the feet of the woman with the onyx hair. We met on the internet. Neither of us is wearing shoes. For the past nineteen hours we've been exploring this hilly field in the gut of our frost-clogged city. Minutes earlier we were standing side by side, passionately discussing the ornamented spires of the gothic cathedral perched on the hilltop in the distance, but something has changed between us. Now I listen to the quiet whoosh of the woman's breath. I watch the grass spike up between her dirt-spotted toes. I fight my gnawing desire to rest my fingertips atop the nub of her exposed instep. Why do I always do this? I have loved the woman since I first saw her move in three dimensions. She doesn't know about these emotions. Or maybe she does. Either way, we haven't exchanged a word in hours. I never know what to say to those I love. I wish to stay here with the woman forever, but I haven't told her that. Instead, I look up and tell her that the sky is shading black. I tell her that the clouds are growing craggy. I tell her that the chilled wind will soon slice through our thin and baggy clothes. She nods and stares at the cathedral. I study her turned shoulder and reach out for the back of her heel. My fingers sink into the cold grass. I await the coming rain.


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