It seems that there are things that show up and those one must show up for. And those that are yet to come, perhaps Now in a cosmic thread, but otherwise over there, just over there or way over there (the illusiveness in measuring exactly how far is a source of great distress for many, I suspect - myself included).
She has a PhD and looks me dead on when she corrects me. And she is correct so I nod. We have banished "I think," and so certainty is not only preferred but insisted upon. The additional rigor does tire. And I napped in the hammock by the woodpile, the book unopened in my lap.
To label it is tempting. Assign it a box to place it in, which leads to a definition - "It means this ...," will follow, and there is nothing wrong with that. Really, who doesn't like to know what things mean? Particularly if a sleight is performed, a piece of magic that surprises with its suddenness. But I am feeling compelled to resist and instead play this sudden game. It should be assumed that The Thief will again pilfer, it is a thief's nature. Then let us see how successfully, and what might follow.
I mocked her curiosity, gently. Promised a poem. That will put her back on her heels (who ever is offered poetry as either compliment or bribe or recompense?), the failure of that enterprise ending this dalliance. The pause between disappointments. She writes with a joy that would be minimized by calling it a twinkle. (she actually mentioned sealing a letter with a wax seal - I know someone who would be most enamored with that, might fall in love)
The talk of food and strangers and accents and noticing life was exactly what this outpost needed delivered. Not mentioned were the struggles and we might get to that another time when my strength is fully returned, my resolve reinforced. At present I will cherish the thoughtful gift. Pull some amusement from it. Try to keep back tears.