We crossed paths in the winter. There were buildings around. There might have been other people but if there were, they were less tangible than extras that some producer is now editing out. We met again. On another occasion we talked from each of our own rooms. Just the phone. And when I think about things now as they currently stand while she is in Hawaii with her friends from Portland and Idaho I think of it like this: We stand facing one another perhaps ten feet apart on the black ice of a road bumpered by clean but hard snow. There are buildings around again but these are tall ones that hold up the dark sky. I hold in my hand a white candle stick lit and with a paper ring that catches the dripping wax. She holds a hardwood cask with iron bands and a lid. I do not know what is inside that cask. It could be anything. It could be gunpowder or the sun itself or a scorpion. It could be anything and it could be everything. It is cold and no one is on the street with us. They are behind the warmly lighted windows high up. There is just enough wind to chill. I am cold and would like the warmth but I am afraid of what is inside that box and I know that, if we come together, I must put the flame of my candle to it. I am not sure she knows what it is either. If she does, I doubt language would be enough. The wick burns and I hold this small flame.
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