There is something about twilight that refuses to belong to certainty. It is neither day nor night. It does not announce itself loudly. It arrives quietly, almost like a knowing.
At 6:30 pm on the 26th of March, 1993, we stood in that in-between hour and stepped into a life we did not yet understand. We thought we were beginning a marriage. In truth, something else had begun its work on us.
On most evenings, just before the lights come on across the street, I see them on their balcony.
Not doing anything remarkable.
He waters the plants. She adjusts the chairs. Sometimes they sit without speaking. Sometimes they laugh at something that does not seem important enough to laugh about. And yet, there is a small ritual between them. A passing of the watering can. A gentle tap on the shoulder. A quiet sound that somehow feels like a full conversation.
That little passing, that unnoticed exchange, has been there for years.
