She accepts the suggestion with a slight dip of her heads, content to allow the proliferation of silence between them as they walk, exchanging only snatches of dialogue, caught in the wistful anamnesis of the parts of themselves they may no longer bring to bear whether due to past or present or circumstance or inability or the nameless churn of instinct beyond their control.

Or, again, perhaps she is reading too deeply into things. Often silence is simply silence, unadorned by steel or selective meaning. Even before she learned to drift and speak without words, she learned the art of silence.

The day passes like this until the sun has begun to dip lower and lower to kiss the horizon.