She turned away from me laughing, her hand reaching up to open a cupboard. We were in her kitchen. The spare light of evening lay in between us like a gossamer blanket. That transparent. That full of possibilities, of stones unturned and doors unopened.

She opened the cupboard, her profile in sharp relief against the raised wood of the cupboard door. She had a classic face with an upturned nose, a delicate jaw, and obsidian eyes that flashed fire whenever she was excited over something. A face made for cameos, made for photographs taken in sepia.

I cupped my face in my hands and just stared, drinking her in. She hummed lightly as she rooted around in the cupboard, a habit of hers whenever she was concentrating. I couldn’t discern the tune and this bothered me, somehow.

“Ah, here it is,” she sighed with satisfaction as she removed a large mason jar from the cupboard.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

She turned towards me with a ready smile. “This is for the fireflies you and I are going to catch tonight.”

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