Unsettled

Muse cannot be controlled. Free spirited, she comes and goes as she wills. Sometimes, she is particularly generous and the words come to you effortlessly as you weave your tale. Sometimes, she chides you into writing, hinting at something but never being explicit. And you never know where you're heading until, of course, you get there. This is one of those less explicit times.

***

She is sitting at the stoop, headphones on, mouthing the words to a song that he can't hear.

"What are you listening to?"

"David Gray. He makes me dream."

"Of?"

"Of moments of pure unadulterated joy, of inexplicable paranoia, of anger, of gloom. Of dungeons, dragons, princes and towers. Of Hobbits and mushrooms. Of far off places and of the places I've grown up in. Of people I love. Everything."

"Sometimes, I think you're much older than 24. Then, there are times when you're 12."

She offers him the headphones but he shakes his head. After a while, the CD stops whirring and spinning and the music ends. She takes the headphones off, slightly unsettled, as she always is when a play list ends.

Neither of them says a word. He unties and reties his shoelaces. She fumbles with the wires.

The sun sets and the sky lights up as if it suddenly caught flame. Then, just as nature meant the day to progress, dusk falls, bringing a sense of calmn. Turning into night, the sky is no longer fiery. The moon stares down at them frostily. The darkness washes over them in waves and they welcome it, letting it swallow them up in its cool embrace.

He scoots closer to her.

They're sitting on the stoop, almost facing each other, their knees touching. Still silent.

You see, they don't need to talk.