She had already jumped to the middle, where the two of them were waiting, the big and difficult questions answered by then. The things they had carried over, the things from their lives before, piled neatly between her and him. There but not there; the intangible physical somehow. A glowing orb, a blue light bobbing up and then down, a quiet buzzing, a hum. A hum growing louder and louder still, he and her stood facing one another somewhere off in the distance, that hum a symphony of stories. Their stories. Echoes.
She wished they had a beach house where they could spend nights wrapped up in one another, the sea crashing outside the window like plates, sand spiralling up and up and up; tiny tornadoes whistling through and across seaside winds. Inside and against the crackling of kindling and fire, choruses of do you remember when's and I love you. I love you. I love you.
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