"Reflection"
She asked him to turn the lights off, some nights as she sat by the window. Those were the gorgeous nights, without exception, those were the lovely nights, the nights of strong winds and heavy rains, or strong winds and desert sky where black lingered above purple lingered above blue above green surrounding a moon that gleamed like a scraped coin. Those were the still nights, when everything seemed to hold its breath in anticipation – of winter, of spring, small death or small rebirth. Those were the nights that seemed to glow from the belly with far-off phosphorescence, or with snow tumbling end over end, buffeted by light.
She'd say she couldn't see, sitting by the window, wrapped in a blanket and his arms atop that, a mug of tea warming her hands. He'd segue into the principles of two-way mirrors, the peculiarities of optics, the interplay of light and dark upon transparent surfaces. She'd elbow him, usually lightly, in the stomach and tell him to turn off the lights, please. He'd point out that she was sitting on his legs, and would guide the back of her head down upon his shoulder, and she wouldn't press the point.
Thing was, Roy didn't want to turn off the lights. The interplay of light and dark upon the glass left an image of her face reflected before the night sky. It was that face, lit up by or thoughtful about what she saw, that he wanted to watch. Snow, rain, wind, burnished moon be damned – he needed no sight to watch, to inspire him, but that of her eyesreflecting the changes of the weather.