A second story window, just to the right of the front door - a yellow glow, good. She’s there, she’s home. Throw pebbles at her window? Climb the trellis? Or the downspout? Yell pssst? Thankfully, she looks out and sees me creeping up the lawn. She opens her window, index finger: Be right down.
I walk around to the back patio. She opens the sliding glass door, index finger: Be quiet.
Really now, listen.
You would’ve said it was quiet. Then less quiet, the silence building upon itself, burrowing into itself, until we can literally hear nothing. (I imagine she is the same as me.) Nothing and its nuances. Layers, tracks, sections like an orchestra. A cricket over by the shed, tree frogs over the garden, the flutter of bats, the shush of leaves, the sneak of a cat, and across the yard out back, the slow rip of a motorcycle pushing its headlight up roads with numbers not names. Leaving us alone.
- Hey, I whisper.
- Hey. So, what’s up...
She stops, expectant. I look at the ground at my feet, then at her.
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