By Julie Kizershot
It began, as it frequently does, with a discussion of weather. Whether or not she would find tenderness, a vocation, a set of lost car keys left jingling in the abyss of forgetfulness. Whether dreaming of shoes was particularly profound. Whether the shed diamond of snake skin she picked up on her walk was a positive omen. He wondered whether a poem could mean anything with its split and orphaned tongue whereas she fixed on unveiling the meaning of wordlessness. On stage the dark expanse between dancers speaks as much as a leg lifted from a cloud of tulle or a face pointed slowly skywards. Everything still but the eyes moving back and forth between the past and present. The fork and spoon perpetually rearrange themselves next to the plate, ending up in similar positions due to the force of habit not nature. Particles in air scatter light in the crepuscular rays of the sun while all the rabbits come out to sniff the growth and decay of vegetable earth. In twilight’s quiet they wrinkle their noses to ascertain the space between a coat, a kept pet, and a lucky key chain. There are important things to remember about the weather. There are hurricanes the size of Texas with a forecast of twenty foot waves for seven miles. There are islands that encounter them only five miles long. When the air is exceptionally clear it proves difficult to determine distance. When the air is heavy with wet a lit match can create instant fog. There are fogs so thick in Russia and other once existent places that a body moves through them and leaves its print. There are rains that fall from heaven and turn to vapor before they reach dry ground. They too leave the sky streaked with a thing untouched.