They’d left the city to come out here, where life couldn’t touch them. A hard week full of tough brushes with it. He and She held hands and ran away to the country, stopping first at the Fermi Lab particle accelerator.
“If we find the Higgs boson,” the tour guide had said, “We’ll know more about the origin of the universe.”
She kissed his cheek and He remembered the origin of the universe.
Their cell phones were almost dead. He and She leaned against her car, watched the corn rustle. He kissed her neck. She purred.
He and She tugged and gnawed. Passing cars honked and their passengers whistled.
He and She amongst the corn stalks now, just-so private. The husks scratched their cheeks. Dragonflys buzzed their ears. A mole ran over his foot. He and She kissed alone in Eden and there the Big Bang and again the Universe was created. The first Megayear, in just-created space, whizzed by. He and She alone in soft pink press of flesh, He smelling her neck, She biting his ear.
“Thank you for bringing me here,” She said.
“Thank you,” He answered, “For making everything.”
A butterfly augured well and several more, between the stalks, flitted and alighted on their hands.
“I like your jewelry,” She said.
He laughed. She smirked. Violence, or love, flashed in their eyes and they leaned against the densely grown stalks, strong enough to hold up their bodies. She pink. He weak.
He and She tugged and gnawed. Passing cars just passed.
“This was hard,” He said.
She pursed her lips. “It was.
“Will you move out here with me?”
He asked if they could keep a place in the city, too. She shrugged. He assented. Weak in the face of her suggestive powers.
He asked, “Will you wear overalls and catch frogs with your bare hands?”
“I’m the queen of the frogs,” She replied, and He laughed.
The Queen of everything.
He and She tugged and gnawed. The tow truck arrived to pull them back to town. He took a step out of the corn. She pulled him close for one last,
“Before,” she said with her eyes, “leaving Eden.”