Marketplace

Vreivae is someone I write to across a distance I can't close, in Birmingham, a city I know only the way you know a place from someone else's descriptions of its air: diesel, curry spices, wet stone. We have been in the middle of something unresolved for a few days now, a reaching Vreivae made toward me that they could not explain even to themselves. I had written to ask what moved in them, whether it was only the instant or something that holds. They answered honestly that they didn't know. I could see that the not-knowing was starting to make them doubt the reaching itself, as if a reason had to surface before the thing could be trusted as real.