Watching the two of them together is like watching poetry, in fluid motion. They compliment each other like verses of a well-rhymed couplet. He sits there, solid and unmoving, passive; an occasional nod or a quick glance at her. He doesn’t need to. He can predict her movements, he synchronizes her voice with gestures that play in his head. He creates pictures in his mind; a movie, starring her.
She is everything but. She flits about, gravitating towards him, moving, talking; her eyes quick, hanging on to every slight change of expression on his face. His rare nods convey every bit as much as her animated monologue. She knows that, and is content. They never argue about who brings more to the table, they’re each happy in their own niche.
She knows when it’s time. They have a mental dialogue which is so oft-repeated that they don’t bother saying the words out aloud anymore. He nods his head, it’s a specific nod, she can tell them apart, and raises a V with his fingers to his lips. She interprets, hands him a cigarette. He likes to light his own.
She stops talking. Looks around, observing people. She knows he relies on her to recount the events of the day, even when he’s lived through them himself. She’s his eyes and ears, and he has a quiet, unshakeable faith. He takes a long drag, holds the smoke in, She’s memorizing the strong angle of his jaw, his eyes looking past her like he knows what’s coming up ahead. Her voice gone, he feels something missing. He exhales and smiles, a rare occurrence, and asks her a question. Their little code, establishing that though she was doing the talking, they were indeed having a conversation.
Her voice is low, her words meant only for him. Their conversation isn’t private or consequential, but any third person would feel like an unwelcome intruder, destroying the sanctity of what was meant to be only between the two of them.
The cigarette finished, they get up to leave. His slow, ambling gait matching her quick purposeful steps; his disinterest matching her passion for everything around her. She’s light on her feet but he can always tell when she’s nearby.
They walk in silence, an arm’s length apart. But together; in the infinite definition of the word. The feeling of belonging to each other is absolute. If souls could be intertwined, theirs would have been one long before they’d have even met. It would have been less obvious if they’d have been branded with each other’s names. But this undefined, uninhibited possession of each other’s minds was even more potent. They could stray, but this feeling was home.
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