He thinks about her.
He is sipping red wine. It fills his mouth with grape and his heart with hope. Outside it is still raining.
Earlier he had walked the hounds in a brief respite from the deluge. There had been a delayed monsoon waiting in the dying-leaved trees.
A hidden sun had set invisibly over his grey, sodden, dripping village before four o’clock. The afternoon had been swallowed up by night without a whimper
It is the shortest day.
He lives by the seasons and can already feel the change. The days will lengthen from now. It is a clean, beckoning, hungry new page.
He will write her name on it.
He does not know who she is. And yet he already senses her presence in his life.
He cannot be sure if they have yet made contact, chased shadows, crossed borders, traded smiles, touched hands, exchanged truths, offered up…
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