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Description
Imagine the hand of a lover, real or not. It's late at night. It's fifty-one minutes past midnight. Everything is silent. The world is composed of your capsule of light -- your kitchen -- then black with orange illuminations. Imagine your lover's hand again. Imagine your feet skittering in and out of the lamplight. Imagine their quiet giggles of delight as they lead.

You enter an area of trees. I don't care if there are no trees near your house. Just imagine there are. A gravel path runs through them. Your lover slows and walks beside you. They lean their head on your shoulder, still holding your hand, squeezing it tight. The only sounds are distant cars, the whisper of the trees, and the crunch crunch crunch of your feet; sometimes harmonious, sometimes in anti-phase -- almost melodic. Moths flicker around you, lost for heat. It feels like you have moths in your stomach as they stop and clasp your free hand. They lean in to kiss you as the moths flail against the walls of your belly, and --

WRONG!

I can't believe you were stupid enough to be sucked in. How could you be sucked in? You're not with them. You're sitting at your kitchen table and it's fifty-nine minutes past midnight and they are on the other side of a laptop screen. You long, you ache for the start of this piece to come true, and you were sucked in by a romanticism inspired by a person you've never met.

You might claim that's impossible. I'm telling you it's not. You ache for their arms around you, and your arms around them. You ache to know their scent and the warmth of their skin. You get sucked into writing and the laptop screen dims, and just for a moment it's like they're dead. You slam the spacebar like a defibrillator.

CLEAR!

God, can you imagine that? If something happened before you could meet? After all you've been through, you at least owe each other a better kiss than just 'kisses' in asterisks. Imagine if the airport voiceover ordered all flights to be cancelled as theirs plummets into the runway. You were so close to that kiss. So close. You flicker against the arms of a fireman, like a moth against your kitchen window, as you try to save them from the burning wreckage. It explodes.

That is fear. Do you fear mortality?

But happiness... Happiness is the other way. The flight lands safely, and on time. They stagger out of the gate at the perfect moment and then you... Well, I don't know how you'll react. I don't know how I will react. I am not God.

I swear to God, if I were He, we'd be skittering through the lamplight right now. We'd be crunching between the trees. We could find out if the ducks on the lake sleep. And when I grasped his free hand, I would lean up, and he would lean down. And when our lips met, there would be a jolt, like static electricity, and that, that would be happiness.

Description
Imagine the hand of a lover, real or not. It's late at night. It's fifty-one minutes past midnight. Everything is silent. The world is composed of your capsule of light -- your kitchen -- then black with orange illuminations. Imagine your lover's hand again. Imagine your feet skittering in and out of the lamplight. Imagine their quiet giggles of delight as they lead.

You enter an area of trees. I don't care if there are no trees near your house. Just imagine there are. A gravel path runs through them. Your lover slows and walks beside you. They lean their head on your shoulder, still holding your hand, squeezing it tight. The only sounds are distant cars, the whisper of the trees, and the crunch crunch crunch of your feet; sometimes harmonious, sometimes in anti-phase -- almost melodic. Moths flicker around you, lost for heat. It feels like you have moths in your stomach as they stop and clasp your free hand. They lean in to kiss you as the moths flail against the walls of your belly, and --

WRONG!

I can't believe you were stupid enough to be sucked in. How could you be sucked in? You're not with them. You're sitting at your kitchen table and it's fifty-nine minutes past midnight and they are on the other side of a laptop screen. You long, you ache for the start of this piece to come true, and you were sucked in by a romanticism inspired by a person you've never met.

You might claim that's impossible. I'm telling you it's not. You ache for their arms around you, and your arms around them. You ache to know their scent and the warmth of their skin. You get sucked into writing and the laptop screen dims, and just for a moment it's like they're dead. You slam the spacebar like a defibrillator.

CLEAR!

God, can you imagine that? If something happened before you could meet? After all you've been through, you at least owe each other a better kiss than just 'kisses' in asterisks. Imagine if the airport voiceover ordered all flights to be cancelled as theirs plummets into the runway. You were so close to that kiss. So close. You flicker against the arms of a fireman, like a moth against your kitchen window, as you try to save them from the burning wreckage. It explodes.

That is fear. Do you fear mortality?

But happiness... Happiness is the other way. The flight lands safely, and on time. They stagger out of the gate at the perfect moment and then you... Well, I don't know how you'll react. I don't know how I will react. I am not God.

I swear to God, if I were He, we'd be skittering through the lamplight right now. We'd be crunching between the trees. We could find out if the ducks on the lake sleep. And when I grasped his free hand, I would lean up, and he would lean down. And when our lips met, there would be a jolt, like static electricity, and that, that would be happiness.