The heart is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked:
who can know it? (Jeremiah 17:9)
His God was her God,
but it was the error of his ways
that overruled her ways.
It was his control of her,
his lack of control over himself;
it was the waiting for a miracle,
well-past that mysterious eleventh hour
(like the thirteenth floor in Howard Roark’s world);
it was the seeing of miracles in randomness,
the believing in him,
the disbelief in inevitability;
it was serendipity misunderstood
and feelings misconstrued;
it was the cutting off,
it was the letting in,
and it was the string of short-lived stays of execution.
It was all these things.