The lover reclined on a splintered dock, bats like confetti in the air. He pulsed and grew, holding the lake, the sky and the reeds within his eye. The wind stirred in assent, sending a ripple up against the shore beneath the lover’s jutting arms. The lover sighed and took the wind, the dock back in his eye. He scratched his short and bright white nails upon the rough and painted wood, and thought of loving and loved some more.

Anna joined him shortly, stemware in her pale hands. They sipped wine and shivered – a branch fell on Anna, and she hit the lover with it. He laughed and pushed her in the water.

An owl watched two mice walk slowly through the grass and gasp at falling seeds.

Anna and the lover sat at the table and talked about divorce. They agreed to certain things. He had been through one before. Afterward, they cuddled on the couch and spoke in ellipses of their plans. He was nervous; she was his first. She struck him as ineffably wise, and he realized he would do anything for her.