Jane Jago’s Drabbles – Four Hundred and Sixty-Nine

Even the beauty of the garden nourished their growing disenchantment. 

He yearned for enlightenment and watched the night sky, but even as he grew more contemplative it seemed she got sillier and shallower. 

Eventually, she drifted to that place they had been told not to go, and her eyes glued themselves to the tree they must not touch and the beauty of the serpent as he coiled and uncoiled his iridescent self.

He saw her there, and his tongue tasted her loneliness, although he spoke not. Instead, he waited.

When he judged her insane with curiosity he spoke mildly.


©️jj 2020

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