The Balance of Nature

They always dance. That's always the heart of it.

She could be standing at the counter, and he'd be behind her, arms wrapped all the way around her shoulders, rocking back and forth.

He could be sitting at his desk, and she'd be leant at his side, humming and tracing circles into the nape of his neck.

Or, most important of all (if that distinction could or can even be made), they could clear space in the dining room, if not the studio itself, and move in step, hands in hands and palms at waists, breathing each other in.

Well. It's not that they could. They did.

And they do. The self-simplest-perpetuating habit.

Everything kept so well in time, just like she likes it - and of course he does too, not only just for her.

"You're not afraid, are you?"

"I was." No point in saying maybe.

"And now?" She cocks her head, but the plaits don't swing their usual because her hair's been let all down and flowing. When they've done talking, he'll probably reach underneath the hanging strands, cup her cheek...maybe kiss her, just a bit.

Maybe.

"Now? Something contrived about how being in love means never being afraid."

"And are you only just contrived, my love?"

"Hey, someone's gotta do it. We make it up together every day."