081413 #worm To the river, of course. They could hardly avoid it. The little abandoned boathouse, where they used to hide from ghosts, with other ghosts, draws them magnetically. Three blocks in that direction, drawing closer for warmth, then stepping over the cable that keeps out the cars, he holds out his arm for her; she accepts his assistance. It's muddy. A splat of mud sucks itself onto her ankle as they follow the path downhill. Yes, yes. Maple and ash, hawthorn and sumac enfold them. The orange of streetlights gives way to glowing moon-black. Their laughter comes freely at last as they slip down the slope, into nettles, wild mustard, the last of the season's trout lilies. And there it is: the river. Ltiky leans against the rough, bulbous muscle of a tree long ago hacked by lightning. He breathes. He really breathes. He looks, and Krim is looking back at him. The smile she wears belies her earlier efforts to force the game. Ltiky feels an upwelling of tenderness towards her. He has at times, as the years have passed, hated her. He has clung to that hatred as to a trophy. She has owed him retribution for a thousand crimes of selfishness and non-spontaneity. But now all debts are forgiven. Look at her: she's just a really sweet girl, after all. Yes, and not so far in the back of his mind, he knows that's what she's always made him think, always just before she knifed his heart again. But that was not her fault. He loves her for that intractible behavior too, now. He loves her. Holy shit, he loves her.