Wooden bench

In the back of my garden, there's a wooden bench. Enclosed by trees. She's seating there, dreamy. I can see her through the kitchen window. How did she end-up there?

She had called two days prior to my birth-day. I thought it was a sign. But when we met three days later, I understood. She spent the evening throwing darts, and they all reached the bull's eye.

Then events gathered for a summer feast. I had dropped my guard, in the last second, and that single gesture gave her the answer she had already guessed.

She knows I am her only anchor. That her dreams need a base to rest on, and direction to channel her creativity, and stability to blossom. But there's always this dark corner, the appeal from the void, the self destructing call from below. How can she resist it?

She's now smoking, looking up to the top of the trees. I can see that she's recalling the big day, when her perspective changed, and she seems to revive every instant since then. As if, bewildered, she just couldn't believe how simple the change has been to initiate.

I was on my guard. As I always am with her. I just can't let anything slip. I'm walking on egg shells. I know that the slightest faux pas could ruin it all.

And yet... She knows everything. And guesses the rest. And she's right. Only that an awkward situation developed and that none of us can see an immediate way out.

I didn't select her as much as I recognised her. But she didn't understand then. Now she does.