In the end,
be
true.
I unlocked the door, paused, and slowed, allowing her to catch up. The overhead fan cut her shadow to pieces. She smelled like summer, succumbing to autumn. Long days on the river, too.
There was nowhere to go but up, and the stairs were a blossoming magic carpet, beckoning, beguiling, offering a brief reprieve from the futility of what would come next. We held granite hands and climbed, and behind paper Mache walls, we received life. Breathing, screaming, yelling, crying, and mating. The mechanical humming under the rolling onslaught was intoxicating, and I lost, regained, and lost again my balance, drunk, and she steadied me. This journey became eternal as we climbed and aged. We released greasy poetry from our eyes, and sacrilege inoculated our veins. Purpose-built for this perfect moment, we were...happy. Our ascent, gorgeous and villainous, we clambered hungry and blind. Our breathing deepened, and sweat polished our brows, but neither mentioned it. It would have been a soft and decent thing to do, but we were not cut from that silky cloth.
We climbed undeterred, never speaking, unyielding in our verdict. The hailstorm of words had all been vomited, and the thawing was complete. With our throats scraped raw, we trod in filthy, sodden shoes. We would be easy to track should the bloodhounds eat through their chains.
And we arrived.
63F.
Who was going to knock? We never negotiated that.
But there was no obligation required.
The door opened unprovoked, and we entered.
And stayed.