Sunday afternoon, as I remember, began with an alarm startling two sleepers. They faced opposite directions, and if you looked down upon the bed, as the alarm did from the sill of the window, they appeared to be a large pair of scissors with their hands tucked underneath their heads.
The endless walking path stretched to a curved pipe that led up a steep indent in the forest wall.
She sat on the solid log. a canoe on the canyon, and only a house lay beyond - no water for that ship.
The lead of the short haired one was slowed by the incomprehensible chatter of the one that followed -
”##???ziemlich…chaotisch???##”
“Where should we go”
“Ein Moment bitte. I don’t know.”
And everything ran through my head - the temper of my spouse is that of dread.
I had led us down this leafy maze and now who should lead us out? It was not the intricacy of it all, as it was not quite so - it was rather a labyrinth stretched out against the earth, so far that it curves enough to feel as though you’ve turned a thousand times.
And the night fell more suddenly than expected.
Two lovers on the bench protested that a bus would not show, and having no way home, just having to sit, watching the luxury of those others who knew from where they’d come.
