forth. It was raining, the air heavy with the damp chill of late winter; the sort of gray, cozy, dreary day lovers find romantic. Ewan played, the music effortlessly drifting out of him, lingering in the air. Perfect.
The song ended. Ewan cocked his head, the wheels turning inside. Nora wrinkled her nose.
“I know what’s coming,” she said.
“What?”
“You’re about to ask me questions again.”
“I was?”
“You were.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Quite certain.”
He shook his head. “How the hell do you do that?”
“See? Questions.” Nora stabbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, immediately lighting up another.
“You always seem to know what I’m thinking, even before I think it. How do you do that?”
“I don’t know. I just know what you want. I can feel it. I think it’s because we were made for each other.”
“You know, most men would freak out if you talked to them like that.”
“Many would, I suppose.”
“No, really. Everything is so permanent with you. Everything is timeless or immortal or forever or made for each other.”
Nora smiled, shaking her head. “No, just us.”
“See, I should be freaking out over talk like that.”
“But you aren’t. You love it. In a universe where you feel altogether out of place, I’m the one thing that feels just right.”
“It should bother me that I’m as comfortable with this as I am.”
“But it doesn’t,” she said, smiling. “Because we were made for each other.”
“Then why can’t you tell me anything?”
“I’ve told you everything worth knowing.”
“You haven’t told me anything.”
Nora shrugged. “That’s the point, I guess.”
“I can’t be the only interesting thing in your life.”
Nora rolled over and looked Ewan dead in the eye. “But you are. You’re the only thing.”
“Who is your best friend?”
“You.”
“No, your best friend.”
“Ewan . . .”
“I’m serious. Before you met me, who is the person you talked to most?”
“I was never really the friend type. I mean, I spent time with people my own age, but I wasn’t really close with any of them.”
“Why not?”
“We have . . . the people I live with, I mean . . . different . . . values.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means we believe in different things. I live out in the sticks. Way out in the Hill Country. You know how folks out there can be. They put a different premium on people. Under the right circumstances some of them are very nice. Under the wrong ones they’d burn you to save their own skin. I can’t live that way.”
“Where do you live now?”
“I still live out there. With my uncle.”
Ewan stroked Nora’s hair, causing her to cuddle closer. “Not your parents?”
“No,” she said. “I never knew them. My dad died before I was born. My mom left me with my uncle shortly after. I don’t remember her at all.”
“You don’t remember your parents? At all?”
“Please, Ewan. Don’t make fun of me. This is why I don’t—”
“Who’s making fun? You really don’t remember your parents?”
“No.”
Ewan shook his head. “Neither do I.”
A small glimmer of a tear welled in the corner of Nora’s eye. She smiled. “See,” she said. “I told you we were made for each other.” The two kissed.
“So you still live out there with your uncle?”
She nodded. The staccato of rain rapped loudly on the window. The storm was getting stronger.
“If this gets any worse, you’ll have to spend the night.”
“There are worse fates I could imagine,” she said. “I have the best dreams when I sleep here.”
“What do you dream about?”
“You.”
“What do you dream about when you’re not dreaming about me?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“The kind wondering what you dream about. What’s ticking inside you, you know?”
“Well, what do you dream about?”
“It’s weird.”
“Weird?”
“You know how most people dream about things like blue puppies or showing up for school in their underwear or going strange places with people they only know from work?”
“I guess.”
“Well, I don’t dream about any of that. I dream about the woods. About running away from tiny men or holding hands with a little girl or monsters made out of rock. I dream about the same things over and over again. They never change. It’s not like I dream about these little men chasing me through the city or the supermarket. It’s always the woods. I always dream about the woods. And nothing else.”
“What do you think your dreams are trying to tell you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe they’re telling you that you need to leave.”
“Leave? No. I’ve been having them as long as I can remember.”
“Well, then. Maybe that’s what I’m telling you.”
“That I should leave?”
“That