He found me, seated in the courtyard that night, sorely different from my usual self. The idea was that we'd never sat, not in such silence, such profound stillness, against the mosquitoes and the party guests with their laundry and affairs, that never might we possibly sit this way again. He perked his head up at my arrival, chewing gum between his teeth, softly gnashing, not in a bored way, maybe spent, as when the taste of mint falters, maybe futile. I embraced him lightly; the chair would fall otherwise, and his shadow was vague, lacking sleep perhaps, all while the sky was fuzziness, a dreamless black inviting stillness and rain.

 

"You're very romantic," he'd said, his hands fishing for perpetual change in his pocket or otherwise rubbing across each other's surface, marking the seconds of time. I counted the grooves on the table; there were eight or nine of them, depending on the way you sat, whether you tilted your head left and cast the light nearby onto the side. Under the table his legs shook, just ever so casual and uncertain, although mine were in place, crossed over each other from time to time in strict alternation. Was there time? I took a swig of water. He got up to use the bathroom. Somewhere to my left the gate kept swinging open and people I once knew kept leering as they walked, sideways, straight to dinner. Somewhere it was eight, not unreasonably late for dinner. I straightened my dress and waited for the sound of his footsteps.

 

Later, when all had been said and done, and when the rain softly fell, I thought of Bonnie and Clyde, how we'd left them, bleeding from their sutured wounds in the grey meadow, the suitcase clasped in his hand as we made our dash far from their soft bodies soon turned to stone. Theirs was a vellum suitcase, neat but unassuming; the rain would've soaked through by now. I thought the sound of rain alone would impair what was inside — words, he'd said, from a book of secrets the couple had unearthed from a cemetery during one of their escapades — although, seeing the patter of rain on the windows, symmetrical with the grooves on the table in the courtyard, I wasn't so sure. The windows thrummed with mechanical solace. A distant light blew out; they must have concluded the dinner proceedings by now. A gramophone was playing.

 

Bonnie had called it their nested insurance. Should one or both of them meet their end, the vellum would soak through and the book would seal shut. Or, if it didn't, no one would decipher them. He'd be in some far-flung paradise, or some rotting cell, drunk and dishevelled and burning, whether with regret or ecstasy, it didn't matter, he'd burn anyway. The suitcase had been on the table. We took turns peering inside: him first, then my turn, after he redid the straps and clasped them over to me, beckoning me in. The air had been dry. But the vellum seemed slicked with some kind of grease, a soft and tenuously warm kind, almost comforting to the touch as I'd pried its surface open, just slight enough. The table shifted. There was a whiff of rose from somewhere. His hair, combed over with a certain spontaneity, curled up on the fringe.

 

I had leaned in, I think, to see where the smell came from. I didn't think it would be from the suitcase, or its book of secrets which now rests under the earth, fermenting spring. The outlaws had confessed that they would inscribe their vows inside. Road trips, a farmhouse, many happy children... somehow I wasn't very sure as I met under the fringe his gaze, a quiet look, a soft despair.

*

The suitcase was there two weeks later, its living flesh tattered to a husk. A bird or two had chewed through, which was strange given that the birds here are not known for seeking anything under the dirt, not even the worms. I had gone with a shovel to dig it up before the sun rose and the rest of the birds would chime in their chorus of shame.

 

It was past daybreak when he joined me by the place where we'd buried it. He'd brought breakfast — doughnuts and coffee — thinking I had camped there from nightfall, thinking, perhaps, that we were to camp there till dusk. I wasn't sure what we were supposed to be looking or waiting for. Nor was I prepared for what we might find.

 

The spire of the church by the river now rose ahead of the day. I had come by its way before the dawn, when its stony build loomed right overhead, thick and obscure; yet now it was the spire that glinted in the sun, not the river whose stars had danced in the hazy dark. I took a sip of coffee, closed my eyes, and tried to picture the spire. Its darkness was muscled from memory, like a soothing quality draped over the back of the eye. Through my eyelids I couldn't register the glint, not directly, that now transfigured the dark into spring.

 

We said nothing. I knew not what time it was, having left my watch by the window. But the sun soon hung directly overhead, its heat on my back, not exactly scorching but not exactly soothing either. He passed me a handkerchief. Over the river, past the church and the courtyard in the distance, were some hills. Beyond those hills, it is said, they have found the stone bodies, hands perhaps clasped together, or their lips are, or they are inches and miles apart, refusing the last gasp even as all blood drained dry.

 

Then there were shoots. Softly, not imperceptibly, they sprang forth under us, from the soft earth tilled by the days of early rain. I leaned in closer. There was a whiff of mould coming from what was left of the vellum, but it didn't smell unpleasant. He did the same; out of intuition, perhaps, or having observed my nose twitching, hungry for curiosity. Budding green stalks, the hints of a leaf, minted fresh under the earth and sky... overhead, the birds joined in their strange, universal chorus, singing whatever came to mind, a tune or tunes that struck the earth less than they hovered above it, in stillness, in passion and waiting.

 

We said nothing. There was no need for words — not just yet. The hills were beyond what the eye could comfortably see, we were miles away, we had made camp on a patch overlooking the church and the river, and the courtyard in the distance. Vastness spoke, on one of the rare occasions it ever did. We lay in the sky and watched time go by.