In the moonlight she dances to the pale crimson rhythm that glides and slides in between the shadows. Her eyes slanted, her feet small and delicate, like a child's. She spins and tumbles her way to the river side, till her eyes meet her own.

The moon illuminates the dark glass and her hand dips into the blackness.
"Love", she said. "Show me love".

She waits with baited breath. Knees bent. Crouched down. From a distance she looks like a small animal, waiting to pounce or dive into the deep shallows.
But after a while, she looks more like a large stone by the river side, sturdy and fixed. Down trodden and tired after the anxiousness had worn off.
Patience, she thought.
Eventually the clouds part, and in the reflection of the water she sees the glimmer and faint shine of the stars.
She sees the outline of the trees, and feels the cool grass between her toes.
Patience.
But what is it to wait for love? What is it to dance under the stars, to bathe yourself in moonlight, and then to not know, not recognize the nature of your question.?
Love, show me love.
She closes her eyes then opens them anew. Her answer, found.

Ace of hearts

The wind blown daughters of a century, they called themselves. They used to meet every Tuesday, in tweed and corduroy. Only the sturdy fabrics would do.

My mother would always go to these meetings in knots. And come back unwoven and frayed.

She used to tell us that passion was the thread of the universe.

That was before she came undone.

I write everything on post its now, and wear heavy cotton. A reminder to self to never venture to places between the sensible and the practical.
I stay home on Tuesdays, lock my door, and close the shutters.
But there is no story to this, no murder mystery that needs to be solved.
The simple truth is this, if you are playing to win, you better be sure you have the ace of hearts in your hand. Otherwise, it’s best you stay home.