Whimsy Can Be Dangerous

“Let’s go for a walk,” and so they do.

They look at trees and they look at sidewalks and they look at everything except each other. They talk about politics and books and music and everything about each other. They trade stories and the afternoon wears on.


“I don’t like Italian. Chinese?”

“We just had Chinese, I want something different.”


“Yeah, Greek sounds good.”

Over the souvlaki they can’t make eye contact and instead look over each other’s shoulders, out the window, at the other diners. Their heads are always turning.

They laugh a lot. Their fingers touch as they pass things for one plate to another.

It’s dark and velvety as they walk home, comfortable at last, full and sleek like panthers. Like panthers, invisible. And they expand into the dark, skin to skin, through the air between them, and, silent, look up at the stars.