From their big soft bed, he watched the ashen gray dawn, as it first touched the very top of the huge, uncurtained window in his loft. As it stretched its welcome to the sky, and joined the howling wind, it quickly spread to the windowsill . . . which almost reached the brightly polished, lacquered floors.

The colors of the new day, were quickly changing . . . from somber gray, to green, to the palest of blues. Just like her beautiful eyes.

Leaning up on his elbow, he was fascinated by the magnificent glittering frost formation, which was scattered along the lower half of the window, and had formed a miraculous, dazzling ice scape. The different patterns, commonly formed by frost, were identified by names. Today, the specific design of the miniature ice crystals was filicoid, which meant, fernlike, and only occurred under certain conditions. He knew, there was little moisture in the air, and the chilled glass, was reacting to the warmer temperature in the room. His mind, recalled all this information, in an instant, from his youthful days, as a chemistry major, at the University of Paris.

Amazingly . . . when a thin layer of water forms on the ice cold glass, it serves as a molecule, that grows into a delicate crystalline work of art. Once ice crystals begin to form . . . other water molecules nearby . . . mysteriously, become attached . . . and move toward the new crystal, rather than build away from it . . . and grow along the glass, into each other. The flaws on the pane, like tiny scratches, and dust particles, combined with the direction of the wind, determined the result of its beauty.

He couldn't believe it . . . Even the damn frost reminded him of her. He had tried, over and over again . . . to keep his loneliness for her, locked deep within his heart, to prevent it from reaching his mind . . . Over and over again, he had failed.

Only a few minutes passed, before the sun, predictably, rose in the sky . . . and started melting the beauty on the glass. He wished he could have shared it with her, before it became just another memory.

As the sun sparkled, and started to take control of the sky, he almost laughed, at how the suns first light, had always made her pull the comforter, way up, and over her head . . . hiding from the early morning hour. He couldn't help wondering . . . if she was lying here beside him now, what her reaction would have been, if he kissed her awake at the crack of dawn, to see frost on the window . . . For some reason, he suspected she would have been amazed at natures achievement and the principles behind its conception. Then again, there was her favorite pillow she loved to throw at him.

His attention shifted to the wind up clock ticking beside him. He kept it wound, only in case of a power failure. As a back-up. He'd always hated the damn thing . . . Always heartlessly reminding him, during the sleepless nights, of how time goes by so slowly, when you're lonely, and desperate for the one you love.

He got out of bed . . . hoping, that the hours would go by quickly today. The weight of the emptiness, that constantly lived in his heart when he was without her, was lighter than usual . . . anticipating the time, they would spend together that night.

Only God knew, and understood, the forces that had brought them together, and had carried them this far. They were risking it all, including their lives, just for a chance to be with each other, for a brief moment in time.

Life had once been uncomplicated, and void of emotion . . . Before he met her.

Section had treated him with respect, as they seized the opportunity to use his intelligence, to their own benefit of course. It had kept him out of prison, and in a limited way, had given his life purpose . . . and had provided the advantage, to make a significant difference. There was never any real reason to rock the boat . . . Until he met her . . . Loving her then, now, and always . . . he was certain . . . would be like standing in a canoe on one foot . . . Without a paddle.

As he measured the coffee grounds into the pot, he thought about Walter, and a smile touched his face, as he remembered back a few days ago . . . .

*****************

He had just turned, and started walking away from Walter's LAB . . . when out of the blue, Walter said, "By the way, Michael. Let me know, if there's anything I can do for you."

He had stopped dead in his tracks . . . hesitated a moment . . . then turned and walked back. Walter . . . acting nonchalant, kept his head down, looking through his magnifying lens. He finally looked up, and acted quite surprised to see him still there. Yah . . .Right.

He'd looked at Walter suspiciously. " Like what?"

Walter made a face, as he looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head . . . like he had a direct communication with God . . . ‘you gotta be kidding me, right? He can't be that dumb.' Instead, he answered, "Maybe you'll think of something. It'll come to you."

Michael had been intrigued, as he turned and slowly walked away. He thought about the incident all day, and that night, he'd stayed up and profiled a new plan. The next day, he approached Walter.

" I've been thinking about what you mentioned yesterday," he commented quietly. " Here's a modification of tomorrow nights profile," he handed him a small disc . . . "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Walter had a big smile on his face. " You got it, Michael . . . Sooo . . You're finally going to start living . . . That's got my vote."

Michael returned a cautious smile. "I'm sure you're aware, this could be very dangerous . . . Why are you doing this?"

"Let's just say . . . I love her too."

Michael rested his hand for a moment on the sweet old guy's shoulder. "Thanks, Walter."

Walter nodded his head up and down, in acknowledgment, as Michael walked away.

*******************

As he waited for the coffee to finish perking, and settle, he walked around the antique kitchen farm table, consciously avoiding the long brass tubes of the wind chimes. For some reason, if you accidently bumped them, they made a terrible racket . . . but if struck by the wind, they were perfectly in tune to one another. Go figure. He peered out at the early morning, and opened the window . . . Sure enough, the chimes started tolling out a beautiful peaceful melody, in the chilly wind. He poured himself a cup of coffee, and sat down at the table. He was practically freezing his ass off, but he wanted to listen to the chimes just a few more minutes, before getting ready to go into Section. He turned the coffee cup in his hand, not to keep his hands warm, but to study the rose-colored imprint of her lips, on the other side.

They had placed their cups hurriedly in the sink one morning, leaving them to be washed when they got home from Section. But they never did come home together from that mission. The next morning he'd washed it carefully, and used it every day since, whether it was for morning coffee, or his favorite time in the evening, when he drank her favorite tea. He'd been tempted many times, to drink out of her side of the cup, so he could taste her sweet lips there, but was worried he would destroy the perfect print. So now he was becoming a left-handed coffee and tea drinker. Maybe even ambidextrous. His enemies, and those that feared him, should only see me now, he thought . . . A complete emotional wreck. The chimes were very relaxing, but he put his head in his hands as he shook his head. There were times . . . that she drove him . . . . ABSOLUTELY CRAZY.

*******************

He'd come home from Section, early one afternoon, and she was standing on the rickety, Paint-splattered ladder, in the corner near the kitchen window. She was all tangled up in these long brass wind chimes . . . holding them up to the high ceiling, with a pencil held tightly between her teeth. The chimes were making a terrible racket . . . clinking and clanging, as they bounced against her body, head and arms.

Oh . . . it was horrible . . . He wanted to cover his ears. She smiled, as she looked down at him . . . and with the pencil still in her mouth, said something . . . that of course, was garbled.

God, she looked beautiful.

He stood on the first rung of the ladder . . . reached up, and withdrew the pencil from her beautiful mouth.

" What? . . ." he asked, raising his voice so he could be heard above the piercing racket.

" Thank God . . . You're just in time." Her midriff was bared from holding her arms up over her head. And she was wearing a very short skirt, of all things. He knew what he wished he was just in time for . . . but had the distinct feeling, they weren't on the same wave length here.

He was afraid to ask . . . but he did it anyway. " For what?" It looked like she was losing her balance, so he reached up, and his hands held her butt, so she wouldn't fall. His face rested against the back of her smooth legs.

"I was trying to decide, if these are centered just right, before I mark the ceiling . . . What do you think?"

He looked up . . . God she was beautiful . . . " Looks Fine," he tried to smile, but was becoming instantly aroused, and thinking at the same time . . . Just what we need . . . a big clanging dust collector.

She lowered the chimes to rest her arms, and of course, the clanging got much worse.

" Michael," she said exasperated, "you can't possibly tell from there. You've got to stand back."

‘This ladders really not very stable. I don't want you to fall."

" Michael . . . Darling, " she emphasized the last word. " I need you to hold my ass when we're making love. Not, when I'm hanging a damn wind chime. I've jumped out of windows, TALLER than this building . . ."

He started laughing . . . and so did she. " You certainly did . . .and as I recall," he teased, " you were none to happy about it, either. " . . . He remembered, his heart was in his throat, as he watched from the street below.

He had held his breathe, as she fell through the air like a big dead bird, then . . . PLOP, landed on the inflated tarp. At the time it wasn't so funny.

" Never Again. Trust Me". . . . . "were, your exact words," his voice, hysterically tried to mimic her.

Their laughter brought tears to their eyes, as often happens, when memories of the worse experiences of our lives . . . after a time, become the funniest to recall.

" Hand me the chimes, and come down for a moment . . . I have something for you," he'd said, reaching his hand up toward them. Needless to say, the clanging was ear shattering, as she handed them to him, and started to climb down, intrigued. He set the chimes on the floor .

Finally . . . . Peace and quiet. He looked skyward, " There is a God."

She finally stood on solid ground, and started shaking the kinks out of her tired arms. " I know they sound terrible now . . . but when the wind blows through them, they sound quite beautiful, and are very relaxing . . . Trust me."

" What do you have for me?" She continued excitedly. He took her floppy arms, and placed them around his neck. Her fingers automatically entwined, as he pressed her buttocks tightly up against him. He kissed her hungrily, and as his tongue entered the sweetness of her mouth, there was absolutely no mistaking, what he had for her.

Breathlessly . . . she had grabbed his hand, and pulled him, as they laughed . . . Running up the stairs, to their bedroom.

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