The Prize in the Fold
Proof of the interdimensional love affair is scant. A sheet torn into scarves. A lone wine glass twisted into a blossom. Whispered condemnations coming from a closet. Perhaps the greatest proof is the emotional attachment placed on voids. Inference. She can turn one way and disappear. He can turn another and be suddenly too weighty to bear. What a trouble it must be for them. People imagine their sexual encounters to be like birds at a bird feeder in the rain. One man is doing a thesis on the mathematics of the likely affair. He will supply a proof of the possibility, though no one can prove the actuality. If there is an affair, it must be one steamy stream of numbers, algebraic symbols, balances. But most of us are sure of the ether-crossing, hauntingly physical affair. See the two of them together, one lightning in a bottle, one just lightning. Moments in our dimension, moments in another. You can almost measure them hand in hand, energies cascading toward affection and lust. Your vision is a flat picture at first. And then one of them turns.
