Nietzsche died of psychic hypothermia. I don’t believe it myself, but that’s what she said, and the situation being what it was, I didn’t feel myself capable of arguing. It was the apex of spring, with warm sunlight filtering through the pines and the road unrolling itself before us like a soft, brown carpet. Her toes dug playfully into the dirt, and her smile caught the light and the shadow with equal grace. Tolstoy perished of hyperthermia. Her golden hair, streaked here and there with ebony, flowed out behind her like the wake of a stately, almost too-important ship. You and I are at equilibrium with our souls.

After some time, an hour perhaps, we came to a wide, sandy ridge where the trees thinned out a little. Ahead some two hundred feet there was a sudden commotion, a fluttering of black and white that disappeared noisily into the cover of the trees. I grasped for her hand and she gave me two fingers, as if something urged her to be careful, to be ready to escape should the need arise. Three punctures in the sand, rather far apart, forming an isosceles triangle. Turkeys. I was glad finally to be able to make some contribution to this pleasant afternoon, but no sooner did the word escape my mouth than it seemed superfluous. The other two fingers poked at my pinky and I let them in. Hand-in-hand we made our way among the stunted oaks that grew here and there in the white sand. If not for the accident, Camus would have met the same fate as Nietzsche. More marks in the sand. A fox and a raccoon. This time I kept the words to myself, but she asked about the tracks, and, whispering in her ear, I told her. At a clearing we spread our blanket and I put down the cooler.

We’re adrift, just like those clouds; tomorrow we’ll be different than today, farther downstream, closer to the wide delta of the unknown; that much nearer to being swept out into the great, boundless sea of the hereafter. I lay quietly on my back, looking up at the tiny cumuli as they rolled and boiled, shaped as by invisible hands. It’s only a process called convection. She was silent. Again my words were like a handful of pebbles cast among the mountains, worthy of being ignored. The sun eased behind a cloud and the shadow crept up on and overtook us. I turned onto my side and reached out my hand, letting it come to rest softly on the bright yellow jasmine printed on her dress, just below the spot where her belly button must have been. The gentle throbbing there reminded me of the sea, of the waves that lap rhythmically, gently on the shore. This sand is all that’s left of an ancient field of dunes. She turned her head to me and smiled. Her eyes, blinking twice in rapid succession, beckoned for a kiss. The languorous light—the way it hung effortlessly in the air—and the sweet transpirations of the trees and the wild, climbing jasmine, everything about us was poised for this moment, poised as if it had been waiting breathlessly for centuries.

From far away there was a buzzing sound, louder and louder as the seconds passed. Kids on their three wheelers. The shadow moved on and the warm sunshine returned with the subtlety of a shout. A breeze emanated from the depths of the forest and the rustic fragrances began to mix and disperse. The buzzing grew louder, obscene in its urgency, and then the first of the vehicles became visible. We rose, she shaking off the blanket and I grabbing up the cooler. Hand-in-hand we made to move, she deeper into the woods, I towards the road. Why not? I couldn’t answer, only urge her with me back on to the brown carpet, all tattered now with ruts. Her fingers wriggled loose from my hand and we walked separately as before, retracing what remained of our tracks. Soon the car would come into view. Soon I would be driving her home, leaving the sensuous forest for the crass hodgepodge of stucco and potted plants where she kept her home. Soon indeed, but for now the road that rolled itself up behind us was still soft to our feet. I put my arm around her waist and she stiffened, crossing her arms over her breasts. Who would have been like Tolstoy? Poe, I think, was on the verge of a spiritual reconstitution. I don’t believe it myself, but with the afternoon sky growing heavy with clouds, there was no chance of tomorrow.

And so I agreed.

William Lewis is an atmospheric scientist working in Madison, Wisconsin. When he’s not fighting hurricanes, changing diapers or cooking Hungarian food, he’s working on a novel that’s been pestering him for ten years.  Image Pine Forest (1901) by Gustav Klimt.