A Dwelling

At the edge of the hollow, his fingers brush peeling silver bark. Even after all his studies, he wonders at its texture. He has named it Silken Birch, Betula sericum.

He reaches deeper into her back, notes the growth of Lilium tintinnabulum (Chiming Lily). The air is still now; the flowers remain silent. He once told her that her laughter reminded him of their peals. She told him he was being foolish, but not once.

“Oh!” he exclaims, “I haven’t seen this beetle before!” Carefully, he brings his hand around so she can see the insect crawling there. The tiny creature flickers in and out of sight. It is blue, it is gone, it is green.

She smiles. “They’re really quite common where I’m from.”

She cranes her neck to meet his eyes—alight, always alight. Always inclined to wonder. Despite herself, despite how desperately she has being trying to keep these words somewhere his questing hands will never reach, she asks, “Doesn’t it ever frighten you? Don’t you ever find me monstrous?”

“No,” he says.

Her eyes narrow. He must, she thinks. If not now, if not always, then at least when his fingers catch on her splinters. At least when he discovers something slick and rotten when he was expecting something petaled and sweet. At least when some ugly, scuttling thing crawls out from her depths and bites his ever-gentle hands.

He laughs.

“Darling,” he says, “Everything I love dwells in you.”