The Head Is a Library

"It's past midnight, doll," Two tells One, but One can't hear Two. It's always been that way, and it will probably always be that way. That deafness, that ignorance, that ice-cold-red-hot stare – it could go on for days, until lightning consumes the Earth with its ton-watt blinks. With its blind-look-mom-no-eyes! light.

"We should go to bed, yeah? Beautiful, are you listening?" Two says, peering into One's eyes – or attempting to. One had already returned his attention to his book, and ultimately to the universe his blackhole of a wordcrowd transported him to.

"D'you want tea, my sweet? Or coffee? Or time alone, or a foot massage? I'll give you anything, ange, you name it, you know I'll hand it right to you, dearest," Two says, all loving and desperate and sacrificing and loving – all sorts of loving, masses and masses of it.

One looks up from his book only to find Two (the very ardent, the very wide-eyed, the very passionate-not-quite-so-perfect, the very second-to-just-one-and-that's-you-dear, the very one-who-loves-you Two) smiling down at him. Always this scene, it's always this scene – the accidental stupid-face-grin, the adoration painted clearly on every inch of skin, the affection the longing the tenderness the warmth the want.

"Come here, you," One says, "on my lap, love."

And Two doth sit on One's lap, right where he'd patted, just where he'd wanted. Two gently, with all the care and precision in the world, as if it were some established sport, wraps her arms around his neck. "Would you like anything else, darling?" Two treats One preciously, delicately, with the softest of voices and the most careful of breaths. One is made of feathers, beautiful bird.

One puts his lips on Two's ear. Everything smells beautiful-sweet-perfect-but-not-for-long-maybe. He traces little circles on the small of Two's back. One sighs. "Oh, love, I wish your affections went to someone worthy of you. Look at you, the science of you. How you render me speechless."

"Oh, sweet, those are all the wrong words, that is everything I feel for you!"

"Your passion for me," One says tenderly. "Impossible and complete. You're a dream, love."

"That's you, dear – you're the dream, please believe me."

One and Two sit for all the small eternities that a handful of seconds contain. "Love, leave me," One whispers into Two's ear, his funny breath moving the locks of her hair in the vicinity. "Let me be with my books, and you with better company. Away, love, don't look back, and don't come back to me, or let your mind wonder to memories of me. You shan't waste because I do."

Two looks at One, long and hard, and not in the least bit blank. There's a determination, a small kind of this-is-for-you-my-sweet. Two finds her feet back on the solid ground, away and away and away from One's heat.

"Oh, love," One says softly.

"Away, dearest," Two says, "I'll be away."

And away she brings herself, far, far off – away from One's walls, and ceilings, and floorboards, and grass, his everything, and everything else, and One himself. She continues to walk, and she might walk the whole Earth, should that day ever decide to come.

As for One, he reads his book from where he left off. He never quite put it down.