tell me, he says. i want you to reach into every fold of your subconscious and take out all the weeds all the flowers all the everything, and i want you to name them all for me.
what do you want me to say? she doesn't know. what is this? her hands move through the water, feeling for oysters, but there is nothing but heavy black water. what if there is nothing here? the galaxies unfold and separate; spin miles away from the spindles they once knew.
she stands before him and holds a tiny blue flower, soggy and wet, limp in her hands. i'm sorry; this is all there is. my one lone tangled stem. his eyes draw her in, his face a blank canvas waiting for a stain.
this is all you've found for me, hm? he says, and she nods, lowering her face. well then, tell me. what is it called?
patience. it is telling you to wait for me; to be patient.
&she tucks the posy into the breast pocket of his jacket. he smiles softly; he knows.
in due time, perhaps, he says. maybe then you will have bouquets for me.