The Hill

An evening not exactly like another

What was her name? I don’t know. I cannot remember. We shared a bottle of wine, the waitor was kind, and the view almost benign. Under a brooding sky before the rainbow came out to play, the path we shared was scattered with raindrops like confetti, which melted quickly into the warm concrete, perfuming our route, our quest, with freshness, and those two mislaid virtues; hope and a certain longing. But we were not exploring, not on a pilgrimage, for the act of walking walking creates friendship itself, and the conversation poured, just like the wine did.

We reached a small church on a hill, and below us watched streetlights flicker on like fireflies, far in the distance, while the horizon turned amber. In the ruins of a castle down across the valley, a choir sang “Hallelujah” in an elaborate pink and blue lightshow, near a cave called Hell’s Gate, while we sat near a stark statue of Jesus that stood silhouetted like a zombie from a far-flung land.

My walking partner tempted fate by quickly tugging shoes and socks off and balancing on one foot, on sharp stone, in gymnastic poses, framed by the magnificent rainbow, also in pinks and deep blues. She was a pole dancer and museum curator, and had parked her tent next to mine at the edge of a forest in the hills. And I remembered true conversation is an art, and that the…