I thought, in the hidden part that dreams, that when I loved, it should not be something that sprouted into blossom without impediment. It would be the kind of love that books are written about, developing against adversity in improbable situations into uncertainty and sweetness, bitterness and inevitability.

At the end of the tale, it never would settle into a conventional mold. Two short steps and one long, always changing direction, walking different ways but always together. Chain us together with years upon years of these shared moments, impossible to break one from all the interlocking others. Wrap my wrists tight against his in silken cords of consideration and courtesy. At such close range we must move together or risk breaking.