Counterpoint of Desire

The rider had tied the rabbit-machine’s steering wire to someone else’s window. Wherever that distant light moved, they followed: left for approval, right for affection, faster whenever it dimmed. The rabbit’s wheels spun beautifully, yet the road kept returning them to the same transparent frame. ‘Where would you go if the window went dark?’ he asked.

The rider could not answer. So they stopped, despite the small figures urging them on, and each named a destination of his or her own. Hers was the sea; his, a hill covered in thyme.

The machine shuddered, then two wheels turned in different directions without breaking apart. Their journeys separated at dawn. Desire had not destroyed the bond; it had finally given it two voices.