She intrudes into the patch of air he contemplates: a lightness in the black, impossible to ignore.

“A night like this, and I can still see you?”

“No clouds have ever been quite thick enough to keep the moonlight off me.”

“Snow White must’ve had a hard time hiding.” He slouches further down against the wall.

“You should come inside,” she says. He thinks he he sees her reach out, slowly waving her arm back and forth, as she approaches.

“I’m over here, to your left. And I’d rather stay.” He grabs her searching hand and she flinches.

“Sunburnt wrists. Please don’t touch,” she says. He releases her, his hand brushing her side and snagging against the lace of her favorite white nightgown.

“I forgot. Why’d you wear that citrus stuff? Didn’t you say it’s in tanning oil?”

“It’s also in the only perfume I’ve ever liked, and it’s not as if I don’t have to hide from the sun anyway.”

“I don’t like you to freckle.” He sees the pale blob of her face pull back.

“Oh? And I was thinking you cared that it hurt, or were worried I’d get skin cancer!”

“Why the hell should I be thinking about cancer?” He pushed off the wall and stood as tall as he could. “I may think you’re stupid, wearing that stuff, but not stupid enough to give yourself cancer.”

“Thats a ridiculous thing to say.”

“Ridiculous? I’m not the one frying myself in perfume. Which, by the way, I could smell the instant you stepped out of the house.”

“Well then, I’ll remove the stench from your presence,” she says. He watches her hurry to the door, a beguiling hint of bergamot still lingering in his nose. She switches on a light: a glare that obscures all of her but the red marks of the sunburn.