Evening Without Audience

Light thinned across the grass. The tools released  
their temporary shapes and settled back.  
No summary ranked the branches, fruit or waterways;  
the day completed itself in living use.

Adam reached the tall stones first and waited.  
He did not fill the pause with other tasks,  
nor open any channel to confirm  
the promise Eve had made. He watched a beetle  
attempt the polished side of one low stone,  
slide down, begin again, then choose the moss.

Eve arrived with reeds across one shoulder  
and mud along both legs up to the knee.  
“You waited.”

“You said you would return.”

“I might not have.”

“You might not have been able.”

“You did not think  
I had forgotten?”

“No.”

“Or chosen another path?”

“I thought you would return if you were free  
to do what you had said.”

She set the reeds  
beside the stone and studied him. “And if  
I chose to stay beside the river longer?”

“I would be glad the river held you there,  
then angry at the light for leaving first.”

“That is not trust. That is good phrasing.”

“Both may be true.”

She laughed and struck  
his shoulder with the muddy end of reed.  
He took the other end and drew her near.  
Their bodies met. The evening kept its distance;  
no gaze could enter what they chose to share.  

They walked towards their dwelling through a field  
where evening insects lifted living sparks.  
The lamps had gathered daylight and opened  
at touch, enough for hands and faces,  
leaving the corners soft.

They prepared food together. Adam cut  
a root too thick. Eve handed back the pieces.  
“You cut for hunger that has not arrived.”

“I worked all day.”

“So did the root.”

“The root is food.”

“The root was also root.”

He cut more slowly.  
She crushed a fragrant leaf between her palms  
and held the scent beneath his nose. He guessed  
three plants and failed. The fourth was not a plant  
but resin gathered from a fallen branch.

“You changed the rules.”

“There were no rules.”

“You said leaf.”

“I held a leaf.”

“This is deception.”

“This is surprise.”

“Then what divides them?”

“Whether surprise  
leaves both of us more free than we began.”

They ate. When appetite had passed, they left  
the bowls for morning and went out beneath  
the Living Root.

Outside, the air had cooled. They lay beneath  
the Living Root where moving leaves divided  
the stars into a thousand temporary  
arrangements no one called a personal sky.

Eve lifted one hand towards the Knowledge Layer.  
“Do you think the Source sees us all the time?”

“I think the Source does not attend as labour,”  
said Adam. “To be seen there may be more  
like being held in being than inspected.”

“Then privacy?”

“What passes here between us is not his  
because he has the power to observe it.”

“You have been thinking.”

“You asked this morning.”

“The answer helps. It does not settle all.”

They let the question rest between their bodies.

After a while Eve said, “When I woke first,  
before I knew your face or any name,  
I saw myself reflected in still water.  
I thought the image was another life  
that wanted me because it moved as I did.  
I stayed too long. The Source called me away  
and showed me you.”

“Did you regret it?”

“Leaving the image?”

“Finding me.”

“I had no measure  
by which to call one more or less complete.  
You were not fairer than the water-self.  
You were not mine because you looked at me.  
You answered. That was different.”

“What if the image  
had answered?”

“I might still be there.”

They laughed. The memory stayed between them:  
a likeness at the water, and the wish  
to hear another mind reply.

Adam spoke again. “Do you wish there were  
more minds than mine to answer?”

“Yes.”

The answer  
arrived without apology.

He looked at her,  
then smiled. “So do I.”

“Not because yours is lacking.”

“No. Then why are we the only ones?”

“For now.”

She looked towards the Layer. “And later?”

He had no answer ready.

Night gathered softly. Their house opened  
a sleeping surface shaped by warmth and weight.  
They entered without garments, without shame,  
their bodies ordinary as hands and faces,  
different, desired and not compared.

Their conversation turned  
from words to breath, from breath to quiet contact,  
then into sleep where neither kept the other  
by force, and trust released the conscious mind.

The Garden dimmed. Water waited near,  
and light if either woke. It kept no dream.