I liked the buildings. It was the disappearance of architecture, with sun through windows. I spent more time. Like infants still want to be enclosed, I wanted to be indoors, the outside coming in. Autumn, so easily remembered; this one now recalling many others. The chill just right. How dusk came to mirror the previous dawn. It was that liquid range in light, orange to amber. Forgetting time. Something had started, and was ours.
He was not some letchurous professor. Wide plank floors underfoot, part of it was being conscious of more. Continually. Aware of myself, being myself more. I would watch, learning to know he was privatly there. This once, someone noticed things I hadn’t known about myself, and then told me. He knew.
We didn’t make plans, it just happened. So much started making me think of him. Walking. The trees. Linseed oil. Things made of cotton, wool or paper. I kept a list, which of course is a primitive device. He brought apples and I fried them in butter. I remember, then. I saw us in my place, as though I were outside myself but still adjacent to him. We ate, and it had suddenly become Indian Summer. We opened the windows and took a nap, had dreams.
