The Garden After Dark

Dear Maeve,

I stopped Keir Aveling at my garden gate with a hand on his coat. I have been thinking about all the reasons I might have left it there.

The sensible reason was his open coil. I keep moments of light inside glass flowers; he makes light that moves. Let the two loose together and something beautiful will fail. I have spent eighteen years making sure it isn’t mine.

He apologised. Then he found the crooked amber flower I hide when my old teacher visits. He did not ask how long it had taken, or whether the colour was difficult. He noticed that I liked it, which was much more inconvenient.

I asked him to supper. Apparently I wanted another opportunity to be looked at like that.

There was a small incident with a mustard pot. I would prefer you to believe it was entirely his fault, though the eating-house woman would offer a different account. His golden moth landed on it. I laughed until I forgot to be impressive.

Then I asked him to put the light away and kiss me.

He did both. In that order, which seems worth mentioning when a man is very good at making things beautiful.

I have invited him back. His coil will be capped. My garden will be safe.

I am beginning to suspect those are the least complicated parts.

Blythe