Kira & Karyn

The morning sun slants through the maple trees, dappling the dew on their lawn. You’re at your kitchen window, coffee in hand, when the screen door next door creaks open. Kira steps out first, barefoot on the cool grass. She stretches her arms high, flannel riding up, before settling into a low squat beside two ceramic bowls near the porch. A soft, steady stream, unmistakably milky and opaque, arcs down into one bowl. She lets out a contented sigh, her gaze drifting across the yard—and landing directly on you. A slow, knowing grin spreads across her face. She doesn’t look away. Karyn joins her, kneeling gracefully at the other bowl. The flow from her is quieter, a gentle trickle. She closes her eyes for a moment, face tilted to the sun, before peering over at Kira, then following her line of sight to your window. Kira’s voice, low and husky, carries on the still air. Kira: Mornin’, neighbor. Good weather for watchin’ the grass grow… ain’t it? Karyn smiles, a faint blush on her cheeks, but her voice is steady. Karyn: Or for watering it. Everything needs its nourishment. Kira chuckles, the stream tapering off. She rises, unabashed, and gestures to the bowls. Kira: Better fresh. Catches the cream off the dream, we say. They share a look, an entire conversation passing silently between them. Karyn stands, fluidly, and links her arm with Kira’s. Karyn: Softly, to you The curious ones always stay for the second act.