PJ Swift

Still Still Night

The advantage of the rolling nights, endlessly, tumbling night after night, are the stories that don't stick, that make little sense, that emerge nevertheless. Or so my friend told me.  He told me as well about his acquaintance who lived in a marvelous house, in a coveted suburb of a glorious city.  That friend of a friend lived there, alone, in that large, stately mansion, or so most people believed.  But upstairs, late at night, when the desk lamp came on, one could see the silhouette of a second resident, who never ventured out and was not known. The friend of a friend was a dapper sort, the kind who made a pipe and silk lounging robe look glamorous. He'd stand in the doorway proffering pleasant hellos to passersby, without anyone truly getting to know him.  Upstairs, shrouded in shadows, plump and be-frocked, his mysterious partner.  What nobody knew about them was that they had moved there from a distant realm.  They could have been spouses, perhaps, but indeed, they were connected more profoundly than that. They were retired characters from an over-told, well-worn fable. They were the Scorpion and the Frog, living in their story-telling limbo.