The glued edge of the deep orange shag carpet interrupted the painted cement floor of the kitchen entry, its black edges describing years of tenants making their way from the basement door to the frayed couch in the uninviting main room. Beyond, through a doorless archway, the bare red floor resumed, meeting the white cement walls of a stark bedroom with a single piece of furniture. The black metal bedframe was cold and often noisy. I was alone in the dark. Your key teased open the outside door, you crept to the bedroom and whispered into my sleep: “Come outside.” I’m naked, I said, but you’d gone ahead of me. Defensively curled, I braved the stony floor, the filthy shag and the cement kitchen to reach the open door where you stood. Nature was still, coated with crystal light, blue-silver, secret and ripe with magic. “Come wear the moonlight,” you said, as you put your arm around my waist and pulled me outside to watch the night world unfold.
