Steve didn’t pass out while next to Gio in the hot shower. Not quite exactly. His mind did drift to the meadow, as well as his heart, though. In spirit, he floated from the Tudor at 17 Tone Street to soothing and sparkling darkness of the woodsy area that he had traveled to numerous times before. Gio was at his side, of course. Floating. Swooping. Flying. Something. The two men had somehow, someway returned to the meadow, both wearing loincloths, wet from their travels, but were quickly drying.
Near the shallow and meandering brook, Gio leaned into his right ear and whispered, “It’s the Nightingale Hour. Just for us. Here and now. You and me.”
“A reception,” Steve said, taking in the scene.
White doves floated here and there among the silver-sparkling stars that hung on matching string
