Milo had faith that there, on that very night, in Molly’s sacred room amongst her innocent memorabilia – the one eyed stuffed bear, the pink ceramic piggy bank, the cheerleader’s pom poms - of her babyhood and puberty, that in that divine place something beautiful might happen. She sat on her brass bed cross-legged wearing a short white nightie and looking more spectacularly embraceable than he had ever remembered. Without a sound, Milo turned out the lights and lay down beside her, motioning blindly for her to unfurl her body beside him.
Nothing whatsoever happened.
He lay there for about two hours, mindful of her apprehensive body beside him in the darkness, thinking how implausibly ingenious life was, how petrifying, really, in that it occasionally does give essence to one’s lighthearted dreams.
After a long time, when Milo sensed that Molly’s breathing beside him was laborious in sleep, he rose, bowed down, kissed her invisible face, and staggered out. Because, really, what good is a dream once it comes true?