smoke just kept rising from it. never sparking, never fully flaring. I wondered if the damp air held the coals in cool comfort. I tried to conjure the last time we shared this space: soles up on rounded rock, toes pointing to the sky, stars rising, the fire ebbing. I remember your face appear and vanish in a kind of stop motion pantomime, each expression separated by dark then golden flickers. Pauses brought night sounds. These small interruptions were welcome. We were testing our compatibility in those silences. Could we be us, without willing the connection into being? An us without forcing our way past night sounds. At some point you said that the mosquitoes must have forgotten about us. I scratched my neck and wasn't so sure. There will always be mosquitoes.