Ůtef is a place of subtleties; it has learned its place in the rocky desert, and it lives as any desert creature might. Quietly: with a secrecy I cannot fully define. Silence in the desert is never a true absence of sound. It is something else: like the furtive guile of Ůtef and, thus, the Ůt’ēžen people, it is a complex thing. Hushed, but never an absence. On a day that Hej and I claimed holiday for ourselves, Borá and Lÿsti decided to spend their own day together, with friends. Work is a constant in Ůt’ēžen life, but there are days when work is inappropriate: days when there should be rest, and nothing more. Always, there is one such day in the week, mandated by Ůt’ēžen law. Two more days are allowed, and they are determined at will. Hej and I have agreed in advance that today would be our holiday. It is quiet in the house. The women have left tea for us, and delicate pastries: a gift from Borá’s cousin. She is the spitfire who runs a local bakery. She and Borá are more alike than different: sisters, as Hej calls them, rather than cousins. She has chosen this as her holiday as well, and so we know that Borá and Lÿsti will spend the day with her and others, shopping for baubles, gossiping, and taking lunch at their favorite eatery near the river: a place on pontoons bobbing on the river, a place lurid with brilliant umbrellas unfurled over each of its tables. Now, I eat pastries with Hej. We remain undressed as if just-roused from bed, and indeed we lingered there for a long hour after sunrise, first in the gentle warmth left behind by our wives, and then in our own intermingled tenderness, gone hot near its end with a comforting, amatory spark. At breakfast, now, Hej falls into a contemplative mood. It is his habit. Though strong, like a bull, and as wild in appearance when his hair is unbraided and unruly, he is gentle…always gentle. He is gentle now, focused inwardly. Borá has left an onionskin, caged on the windowsill and the husk catches the breeze. It lisps like insect wings, imprisoned. The caged skin is the sign of a sacred game among the Ůt’ēžen; it is favored most by children, but adults—especially if sentimental—enjoy the game as well. Cages in open windows are a common sight. After tea and breads (some salty, some sweet) Hej pads on naked feet to the open window and touches the cage. He brings it to where we sit, and handles the onion-husk with scrupulous, delicate care. He knows their frailty and sees—clearly—that this skin has begun to tear. It will soon reduce to crumbs in the bottom of the altar box, but for now, it remains nearly whole. He smiles, softly, and thanks me for sharing sweat with him. I smile and offer my own gratitude, welcoming anything else the day might bring to us. Hej is not a sentimentalist. For all of his poetic kindness and his reluctance to speak overtly, he is pragmatic. Now, however, a kind and playful light has taken life in the ashy green depths of his gaze, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. There is hair on his chin, new growth: little more than stubble. He cups the onion skin in one hand, bending it slightly. I know this gesture, I know the game so loved by children with secrets and adults too. I know what to expect and it is a gentle pleasure when it comes. Hej whispers something on the border of coherence. It is a sound like breathing, with syllables in it, but no words I can discern. It is his secret: something only for me, and I know that the entire day will be a game between us…I will guess what he has said. He will—most likely—tease me. It will be a good day. Warm. *** Yep, more of the same onion skin on paper and in ambient room light. As always thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting. We have a visitor in Chicago. Meisiekind is here. YAY. Corey and possibly Kate, and I will see her tomorrow. THAT is gonna be fun! Ninja shots will inevitably follow.