_Walking._ Gentle Vigour: So how do you like it so far? Rain Song: What? Gentle Vigour: Don’t play dumb with me. Being a woman. Rain Song: Well, I like it. I’m excited; it’s beginning to tingle ever so faintly in my loins, my voice is more natural, and I love the way this dress fits on me now. Gentle Vigour: But—? Rain Song: Well, but. But. But what. No but’s, really, just . . . . Gentle Vigour: Well, what? Rain Song: I’m kind of scared. Gentle Vigour: Scared that it’s irrevocable? Rain Song: Scared that it’s not. _Twilight descends gently, a bodiless cape. The moon comes out like the eye missing from a smile cast in pain._ Gentle Vigour: Well . . . . Who would take it away, then? Rain Song: Whoever, or whatever granted us this perfumed gift in the first place. My god you’re beautiful. Gentle Vigour: Thank you. As are you. Rain Song: Thank you. _Slowly, with such brash dignity as a firefly has, paying attention to one another’s movements, carriage, and gestures, they come together. The moonlight turns their cheeks as milky & smooth as the faces of the queens of wands and spades, and bestows upon their lips th’illuminated power of all the aces._