Enid speaks softly, and sometimes her gaze doesn't focus on anything visible. It may be that you've dreamed the same dreams.

Enid sees the gaps between things, and the arts that she has learned permit her, sometimes, to place her fingers in that gap.

Enid always sees her enemies coming. All the time.

The light is silver; the breeze is cool; the night's silence invites words as dark velvet invites a finger's touch.

Enid looks up, directly into my eyes, a sudden dragonfly brightness. 'Yes,' she says.

Enid drifts closer to me, and closer, like a reflection on a wave-crest, until she fits against my side. She says nothing at all, neither then, nor later.

Enid prefers to close her eyes rather than look at me. She says it hurts to look. She says it with such longing that I can't take offence.

She does not talk, when she is sad. But she is often sad. I know now to place myself, know to leave my hand just so, and coax that lovely neck upon my shoulder. Our lives are mottled with moments like this, unspoken, unseen, us. And in the morning, when the day before her lies open and wide, she smiles the smile only I know and I am well repaid.