Memories of him linger on her tongue like chestnut honey. The Red House stole their dreams and demanded they follow to an upstairs room. A soft evening breeze flows through the linen curtains and wraps around them.
Interlaced and turning, their bodies driven by the night melody. Some melody. Mind, body and soul so harmoniously in tune it frightens even a songbird.
They transcend the rustic room somehow finding each other again where music becomes dance and rarely lovers still love. He tells her wryly some say Woman is the Devil's invention. She tells him woman without man simply is; woman, with man, is woman. Which then is the Devil's finer craft?
They lean in closely together laughing because the Devil can't be found inside. Many stroll down the little side street but few pay attention to the old wooden house. No reason to. When they leave, she and he, with them goes the spirit of the place.