Wednesday, April 11, 2007

The coach to London

Their encounter opened a door inside her as if he had pulled gently on a handle and walked in, creating in that instant an entire house of which the doorway was a part. She'd never thought of her love this way before, as a place, one with room for it's different forms and varied character.

From their first meeting she felt his presence, the way one does for someone who is the next room but quiet and out of sight. And it lingered too after he had left town and she remained at the table, his coffee unfinished, the cup still sitting in front of her where he had last touched it.

The discovery that day of her love as a place was at once strange and yet immensely familiar. The moment it was created transformed her understanding of herself. She was changed she knew, the sudden awareness could never be reversed and she could no longer remember what it felt like before it had happened. The knowledge felt as old as time, and it gave her a deep comfort in their long times apart, as
if she was a part of something far bigger than she was or could comprehend.

Now she was leaving him behind for the first time, and wondered if he would ache as much as she had each time upon their separation. The northern country sped by in the jerky rhythm of the horses' gallop. It made her queasy. She put her hand on the window ledge to steady herself, and tried to fix her eyes on a point further in the distance that would make her less susceptible to the oscillations of the countryside passing as a blur an arm's length away.

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