She heard 'generous' while he painted the layer wedged beneath a surface aching with its depth. As though he were inventing her. His hands upon a
place not yet invented. Her expression where smile wrinkles would be. A stucco tree in an imaginary yard, with just the right resistance level planted in the ground. 'Somebody live here,' she implored. 'There's not enough of me.' He gradually rose to invitations that he heard repeated when they spoke their separate languages all the in the name of center fraction. Once when he appeared a boy, a woman wrote in penmanship entire new syllabi. His line drawings of her began to serve as her replacement. As he grew, pale diary entries held an overcast arrangement. When she wept, he also cried. The question of identity was shared, and when dusk began to lose clarity, opaque new dove lines crossed the sense of limits into sweet night. He was feathering a wilderness, and she could be again the child.