There was nothing in the eyes which revealed to her
where they had looked before, whom they had laid upon,
what kiss they had seen, what heart they had traversed.

She peered closer because his head was turned to one side and she
looked for something in its stance therefore, or in the hands or fingers moving which might tell the story of their wanderings, their placements
upon what and whom, at what hours of the day or night,
what perfumed scents they might possess, whose mouth
even they might have stroked or tasted, plying aside gentle lips, placing
cherries there from the jubiliee.

It was not that he, once turned, would look upon her; he might not notice her at all-and that was as well-giving her the advantage of the unobserved observer, the secret admirer hiding in plain sight, the moment about to strike if fate allowed, and thus when ,she thought, when, when he finally turns there will be dumbfounded first moments when strangers meet and fix there as though they had known each other all their lives.

He was that person, even from behind or profile she knew, even if all she had seen was profile, he would be unknown but known, a lightning bolt crackling to ground seeking to wed earth and cloud, she was earth, of course, because lightning strikes up vivid, quivering, and sure.

His head froze because the charged air made him aware that some ones energy was there, behind him, drawing him and recognizing that made him pause and slow motion, stop his conversation, cock his head and start to turn, turn to see what manner of human force was drawing him round, demanding that he face its source.

She froze as well, up to her full height anticipation to see what the face she had never fully seen, was to see in her seeing him.

Tuned both, electrifying as an unveiling of art figures, widening eyes fixed as both edged toward full view, shards of emotions starting to chain the event, not yet fully realized, to moments glow, where anticipation pregnant slowly,deliciously, tips at the brim, as he suddenly, oh so suddenly, was at her side, a voice rolling through her like velvet thunder inquiring:

"Don't I know you?"

He had been drawn to her inexorably drenched as in a sudden summer rain, drenched with her even before he fell in beside her; too close already for clear thinking, but here was a sort of wedding of silent spirits even before the words came.

And those words came huskier than husky because that, he understood, is the way his soul sounds when it speaks.

(A few more chapters to be done here and then a completed version to be included in an up-coming collection of short-stories)