She walks the curved path, fingers mapping the trimmed hedges. A slow afternoon simmers under a felt blanket. She opens the glass door and sits on the right hand side of the blue suede couch, back to the window. The sun breaks through over her shoulder. It patterns the floor with leaves. Anticipation twists her hands. She sits on them, and closes her eyes. Time steadies, she relaxes.
He calls her name. She steps through, shifts the chair to the side and sits in the usual spot. It is cool here, safe but raw. She feels transparent.
Sometimes he throws jagged questions. Sometimes he doesn't need to, the words spill out, flowing until she is quiet. Perhaps she laughs, or cries. She talks about patterns, building a life from small pieces. He reminds her of some she has forgotten. She talks about making, creating. He teases.
She wonders what it must be like for him standing in the flow of people; listening, responding, directing traffic, clarity and stillness. This time she imagines borrowing the habit of stillness, of empty listening. She wonders about his patterns and hopes he is heard.