It began in the garden.
They chattered away the early evening without even noticing. Thoughts felt transparent and unnaturally exciting, as if each one had received a mild caffeine injection en route from mind to mouth. Every sentence was its own gift, wrapped in the way romance prefers when it first wakes.
Behind their lawn chairs, to their left, directly parading into their sightline—in every conceivable direction, life swirled, a Möbius strip immune to the pageantry they’d staged. Plants yearned and defended their homes, pushing towards the sun. A field mouse instructed her children on the proper way to conduct food reconnaissance missions. An eclipse of moths swapped stories about the area’s finest wool-and-silk dining spots. In a nearby hive, hundreds of bees presented the day’s honey and waited for the Queen’s approval.
But the oblivious pair in the garden perceived only each other, blissfully unaware that every moment of solitude was ensnared by constant motion, spiraling out forever.