The sun passes behind a distant building, and the walls of the bedroom turn from gold to gray. The strongest light in the room is now the glare of a computer monitor, where a few unfinished sentences hang, waiting. Stephanie is sitting on Mark's lap; walking into the room, she had found him staring blankly at the screen, and as she went to him he had opened his arms for her, their bodies fitting together in an unspoken choreography. Neither of them move as the night deepens, their arms around each other, their slow breath mingling.
"I'm having trouble with this story," Mark says softly.
"What's it about?"
"It's... I sort of wanted it to be a surprise. Do you really want to know?" She nods. "It's about us. I wanted to write a story about us. About how we met, how we got together. Except it's coming out all weird. I'm not sure it makes sense."
"The way we met was kind of weird," she says. "Maybe that's the problem."
"Maybe. I mean, yeah, we're a strange couple," he says, squeezing her. "But as I'm writing it, the ideas I've come up with - the story isn't turning out the way I thought it would."
"Can I read it?"
"There's nothing really to read yet," he says. "All I have are bits and pieces. It's all disconnected and..." He shakes his head. "I don't know. It's a mess. As soon as I have something, though, I'll show it to you."
She kisses him. "I'm sure it's going to be great. I'd love to read it."
"You will. If I ever finish it."
The room suddenly goes black as the screensaver comes on.
* * * * *
The sun is behind them. The morning haze has lifted and the road ahead is clear, or at least from what Mark can see; the tree-lined curves and hills obscure any long view of the countryside. Stephanie is holding a map but doesn't look at it; they've had to turn onto several side roads, some no more than dirt tracks, and they are driving by instinct now, guessing each time they come to a crossroads. The road they are currently on seems promising, a relatively straight highway leading in the direction they want. Only a few houses line the road.
"How much longer?" Stephanie asks.
"I don't know. It's so hard to tell. But it's not like we're on a schedule. We'll get there when we get there."
"But I can't wait," she says wistfully.
"I know, me too." He rolls down the window, letting in the chill damp air. "We have so much distance to deal with."
"But we're moving," she says. "I think that's what matters, that we're going forward."
After a series of steep hills the road levels out; Mark eases off the pedal as the car glides down a long slope. The land becomes flatter, dotted with farms where forests have been cleared, and crossed by small streams that snake under the road every few miles. Other roads branch off at irregular intervals; Mark finds himself peering down each of them as they pass by.
"All these roads," he says. "How do we know we're on the right one?"
"I don't think we have to worry," Stephanie says. She opens the glove compartment and stuffs in the map. "Don't you get the feeling that we can take any one of them and still end up where we're going?"
"What, like the whole world is open to us?"
She smiles. "Something like that, yeah."
They round a curve and see that the road ends ahead. The car coasts to a stop at the intersection. They look in either direction but both ways are the same - a stretch of road like any other.
Mark cocks an eyebrow at Stephanie, then turns the wheel and accelerates.
* * * * *
"Things have a tendency to fall apart," Mark says.
Stephanie brushes her hair away from her eyes. "Not always." As she turns her head into the wind her hair streams out behind her.
"Sometimes I feel like I'm falling apart," he says quietly, his words blown away.
"What?"
He shakes his head.
They sit on a blanket, on a small hill overlooking a lake. Gusts break the waves into smaller waves, scattering the light across the surface like tossed pebbles. As clouds pass overhead the lake becomes opaque, metallic, until sunlight sweeps in again and thaws the water. Trees creak above them, their tops churning in slow circles.
"If we'd never met, you would have found someone else," he practically shouts over the wind.
She looks oddly at him. "Honey, what are you talking about?"
"You would have easily found someone else. Someone better."
"Why are you saying this? Where did you get this idea?"
"What if I'm not right for you? I can't shake the feeling that I'm ruining your life. That you're better off without me."
She frowns. She gets up and moves closer to him; the edge of the blanket starts flapping. Pushing her hair away from her face, she peers into his eyes.
"Don't you think I have the same fear?" she says. "You could do a lot better than me."
"What?" he says, shocked. "No, no way..."
She puts a finger to his lips. "That's my reaction, when you say something like that. So don't say it. Let me decide if you're right for me."
A sudden gust billows out their clothes and nearly knocks them down. They reach out and steady each other.
"Sometimes I get scared as hell," he says.
"What are you so afraid of?"
"I don't know. Everything?"
* * * * *
The mouth of the cave is a low jagged arch, as if the rock was caught in a painful groan. Gravel has tumbled down the hillside and piled around the shelf that leads to the opening. A fitful wind kicks up dust and leaves, swirling around Mark and Stephanie as they stand on the uneven ground and peer into the darkness of the cave. Both of them look determined.
He turns to her. "You ready?"
"Yep."
There is a substantial drop to the cave floor, and with the low opening it makes an awkward entrance; they climb in backwards, probing with their feet, their hands gripping the ledge. Inside, the ceiling is high enough to stand upright and the floor is packed dirt. They flick on their flashlights; there is only one passageway, descending deeper into the ground. Mark leads the way.
The first painting they see is a childish scrawl, a mass of angry lines etched onto the rock wall. There are more paintings each time they turn a corner, crude and incomprehensible paintings; Mark briefly shines his light on each before turning away, while Stephanie lingers over them, trying to decipher them. Slowly, as they go deeper, the paintings become clearer, more coherent; figures can be defined, and the action in each scene can almost be understood. Soon, after shining their lights on an endless parade of images, the theme is unmistakable - the walls of the cave are covered with images of sex.
Wild, absurd images of sex. Distorted bodies, impossible positions - as if the artist had been told about the human sex act but had never seen it, let alone experienced it. Mark gets more and more uncomfortable the further they go, shying away from the images and saying very little; Stephanie, after studying the paintings for some time, notices the repetitive and pointless nature of them and soon loses interest. Eventually they both stop looking at the walls and trudge steadily down the tunnel.
Just as they think the passageway will never end, they squeeze past some fallen rocks and stumble upon a wide chamber. It looks occupied, or recently deserted; there is a large pit full of ashes in the center, and a nest of clothes and blankets beside one wall. A musty scent fills the air. Two other tunnels lead out of the chamber.
"Is this it?" Stephanie asks.
