She stood beside him. He was a tall and angular man, with hair as dark as mysteries buried in the bowels of a swamp. His eyes were the color of moss, the color of ash, some color in between. A band of silver gleamed on his finger: featureless. Plain. On the fourth finger. She noticed this, even as she plunged her focus into the heart of some passing distraction. They stood on The Bridge, at one minute past midnight. He did not touch her, but the wind in playful conspiracy with her own desires, tugged at the hem of his long, black coat and fluttered it like some indolent flag. It brushed her leg and she felt electricity in the contact. It was all she would ever have of him. It was time for a distraction, something to pull her from the threat of despair. Statues lined the flanks of the bridge, a blunt, ugly half wall between them. She placed her hands on cold stone and stared out at the river, and the city beyond. Her city. She'd known it her entire life. There was light from another source as well: older light, tinged blue as if reflected from opalescence cupped in a clam's shell. “The river is beautiful,” he said, after a long silence. Something in his voice startled her, something in the softness of it. He was a man from a land touched on two coasts by ocean. From a land of rivers as countless as the roots of a tree. There was only one river here, a murky serpentine melted snow-spit from the highlands. She was long past seeing what beauty there might have been. “There are other rivers,” she said. “But none like this.” And again, there was that note of longing sadness. Perhaps—she thought—he missed home. Perhaps—she thought—some small kindness might release that burden. As the wind played the hem of his coat against her, played strands of her hair across her face, She brushed it aside and caught him in a sidelong glance. “Tell me,” she said, “something about home. What do you remember most about it.” There was a moment of silence. And then: “I remember everything about it.” “You miss it?” “No.” “Why not?” His answering smile was shocking in its subtlety, but less so than the soft touch of his hand upon her shoulder. He caressed strands of hair from the cusp of her neck. He slid his arm around her and warmed her with the scent of his cologne. He pointed to the moon: full, behind a clotted veil of clouds. “Home,” he said, “is what you bring with you wherever you go.” He smiled. “I haven't brought many things with me. But I've brought the moon.” *** I wrote this small vignette on Charles Bridge (Karlovy Most) just before midnight. There were precious few tourists ambling about, but plenty of city workers in day-glo orange vests, sweeping tour-junk from the cobblestones of the bridge. I'd taken the picture accompanying this text just moments before sitting down at the base of a hulking statue to feverishly scribble the words decompressing in my mind...this post is the result of that. And as always, thank you for reading, viewing, commenting. Most of all, I hope you've enjoyed it.