Hilary and Lenore sank into the mud and disappeared. The mud hardened into concrete. Hilary and Lenore were stuck, immobilized, eventually fossilized. They dreamed of pastures and trees from within their frozen stance. They looked back nostalgically on love and sex, birth and death, anger and peace. Hilary resented, even in death, the people who had signed their emails to her with phrases such as "peace be with you," or "blessings on you." These people had been strangers, not friends. They had also been the ones who arrogantly, selfishly believed that words were enough. Words without actions. Lenore would have shrugged her pretty shoulders. Hilary wanted to slap their faces.
Lenore laughed at Hilary's bitter, pettily idealistic assessments — laughed and ate her low calorie Continental yogurt sprinkled with sugar, grape nuts and banana chunklets. A stranger had once tried to secretly connect with Lenore through her blogsite, a stranger who had lived far away from her in Atlanta, Georgia. Even in death, Lenore had no doubt that this stranger would try again the next life around, and that they would remain friends as well as lovers.
Hilary rolled her chalky eyes and wished she had some warm buttered cornbread although her mouth was petrified shut and, unlike Lenore, she could not eat. Atoms behaved differently in Lenore's presence. They ignored poor Hilary and her churlishly hermetic behavior, much preferring Lenore's cheerful insistence upon realities that could not possibly be real. Lenore tossed her endlessly long hair back through the concrete, and it moved as if the preface to a storm were singing through it.
The cat slept between Hilary and Lenore, silently knowledgeable, oblivious to the mud and ensuing concrete. The clock on every bedside table in the world didn't tick because it was either digital or broken, but all people everywhere knew how late it was. Every single one of them. Hilary, Lenore, the cat, and all the rest. They all knew.