It was a strange question to think of asking.
He mostly thought of it when standing by that particular window when there was just a little light left in the day and hushed sounds in the garden outside. Thinking of it seemed to beckon, and, like a shy animal creeping forward, in his love would come, uninvited, but always invited, the softest, softest of breezes, curling around him, over his chest.
“How much would you cost, if you could cost, my breeze? Don’t you deserve a price like everything else?” he’d ask. “Surely if you could be, you would be expensive, more expensive than anything.”
It was worth everything, that moment, blue dusk, breeze carrying liquid song. He’d pay any price right then in that instance, his life’s savings without a thought, intoxicated, and if everything he had was to just disappear or turn out to never have happened, his loved ones, his home, his whole past, standing there by that wedged window, spellbound, he wouldn’t have minded at all.
Constant Voice 