the woods are lovely, dark and deep
I have read enough fiction to know that I should laugh at this; him and I, just so happening to come across one another in a field as flowery as this one, under the sweet, pale light of the moon. I should laugh. It is ridiculous, this setup; ridiculously romantic, that is, for a pair who have done nothing more than glance at one another sidelong from between the aisles of the library.
I do wonder, often, why that is all we do. We are like schoolchildren who have not quite learned how to socialize. Sometimes the movements, mine included, feel inorganic—like we are following a script written by someone with absolutely archaic notions of propriety.
I know I should be more forthcoming. I know he is shyer than I am, and thus the burden rests upon me. But on the few occasions I dared to try, I have felt—I think the word is rebuffed. Not exactly, but something very close.
That is: there have been times I smile at him and he looks away, and I am rarely brave enough to push my luck further than that.
I think I see him smile. It is only the slightest change in his expression, the faintest and quietest upturn of his lips. But on him—he who is so severe not only in coloring, not only in countenance, but in build, as if Oriens sculpted him to look like truth itself—on him it is as notable as anyone else’s full grin.
Grass sways in the wind, tickling my ribs. I shift just a little. As if he knows that I am wondering what it means, as if he knows that I am debating whether I should take that smile seriously, he steps forward. An awkward, choppy, sudden movement. (For one fleeting moment I have to suppress a laugh. But I recognize that this, too, is an admission of interest on his part, and so instead I gaze at him with renewed warmth.)
I am still thinking of what to say, how to tease him, when Pravda clears his throat and says meekly: Perhaps I could join you.
So perhaps this night is romantic. Perhaps there is—as embarrassed as I am to admit it—some special quality inherent to the freckle of stars overhead; the gentle glow of the moon; the whoosh of the wind in the grass, and how the gentle rustle of it fills the air between us.
I know deep inside me that there is some magic, muted but stubbornly alive, in the way the world has unfolded around us in response to just those few words. Perhaps I could join you.
“Of course,” I respond warmly. “I would appreciate the company. You can tell me what you’ve been reading, since we so often seem to split custody of the library's contents.”
His face has grown suddenly and completely serious. I see the straight line of his mouth, his brow almost furrowing in nervous concentration; and I wonder, half-guilty and half-bemused, what I have done to make him so anxious.
