The song starts without warning. Norah Jones. Something from the early years. I don’t remember starting the record, but it spins.
They arrive when it begins.
I don’t hear the door. I don’t hear their feet. But they are in the center of the studio, already swaying. Their arms find each other like nothing ever happened. Their heads tilt in. One body together. No longer apart.
The man’s suit is clean and pressed. A subtle crease runs down the back from hanging too long in a clothes bag in a closet. The woman’s dress pools at her feet like spilled ink. One shoe polished, the other not. A hairline crack across a leather toe.
They move with care. No hurry. Not self-conscious. Their is no speaking at their reunion. Only rhythm.
I stand near the corner. Charcoal in hand. Newsprint on board. They don’t see me. Or they do and don’t care. I begin to draw.
Her face turns to him. Not youthful, not withered. He only sees what is beneath the surface. He nods, eyes closed. Their hands remain joined as they revolve around the studio floor.
The dogs remain quiet. The trees outside stiffen. Everything listens.
I mark the shadow beneath their clasped hands. The length of his wrist. The crease beneath her eye. I work, without thought. The page fills itself. Next sketch.
The man’s mouth moves. Nothing said out loud. She responds by touching his collarbone. He breathes deeper. The record clicks at its end, but they do not stop. The silence holds them.
A faint smell of lavender and iron reaches me. Old heat. The scent of rooms no one lives in anymore.
I move to the easel and continue. These drawings aren’t enough yet. I press harder. I drag. I erase. Their forms emerge again. Larger. Still joined.
She glances over his shoulder. Just once. Not surprised. Not asking. Just permission mixed with a slow ache of lost time.
I nod.
They continue. His back to me now. She rests her head on his shoulder. A hand on his near shoulder pulling him closer. He leans into her hair. That’s the moment they want me to see.
A small wind breathes at the window. A moth bounces against the pane, drawn to a world it can't enter.
They begin to dissolve. Not vanish. Just breath on glass.
I set down the charcoal.
The floor is empty.
On the easel: the curve of her hand at the base of his neck. Her other hand drawing him closer. The echo of longing. The fulfillment of the observed.
They will not return. Not this exact pair. But she will send others. Those who still wonder how they look. Those who want to know.
I wash my hands and brew coffee. I sit with the final drawing.
Outside the studio, the trees mirror the couple in a slow dance to the rhythm of the wind.