Beneath the waters surrounding the Amami Oshima Islands in Japan, a tiny artist had gathered fine sand. For weeks, he moved around in a circle, making little valleys and hills of sand. With bruised fins and a tired body, he searched and carried sand dollars and seashells. He was creating a masterpiece on the ocean floor.

The pufferfish knows that the masterpiece, his painting on the canvas of the seafloor, must be embellished to reflect the beauty in his heart. He was not making a crop circle on the seafloor. For him, it was a map to her heart.

Now his masterpiece is ready. He stays there. Waiting. Quietly. For her.

For humans, time is measured in hours, minutes, and seconds. But not for the pufferfish. Neither is for humans in love. For them, the ethereal moments of love are measured in heartbeats.

The human heart beats an average of seventy-two times per minute. Sylvia and Nigel both stood in front of the paintings for over seven hundred and twenty beats. Yet, by the human clock, time was well below ten minutes. It was just that their hearts were racing.

A forgotten cup of coffee still lay between her palms. Its aroma and its warmth were gradually drowning in her. He stood next to her. Her 'Limerence' stayed in his hands. Juliet Rose still pressed in between the pages. Waiting...

She needed his touch. The way he touched his canvas. She wanted him to paint himself. On her.

He needed her warm hands to create stories, write herself. On him.

Their quiet tune had now melted itself into silence. She closed her eyes and inhaled the colours in the room. He kept his eyes open. There was no need to sacrifice his sight for her smell.

He looked at her. She didn't need to speak. He could read a thousand words of latent desire written in her eyes. He wanted to dissolve in those eyes, read her words, hold her words close to his heart. He touched her hair, like a brush, lightly. Very lightly. A few little goosebumps released themselves from her long-locked prison. Few. Many followed.

He ushered her towards the window, away from the chaos. She followed. They stood in front of his ongoing painting, resting on the easel. Asleep. Covered with a thin muslin cloth. To protect her.

He lifted the veil over the painting. Undressed it.

A gentle shiver ran down her spine to her toes. She felt herself standing in front of her. Not the one from today. Not the one burdened with sorrows, memories, or the past. The girl on the canvas was her, with hope. She believed in hope.

There were no pretences, no embroidered words on the canvas. She saw the naked truth. Bare. Undressed. It wasn't an obscene nakedness, though. The shape and colour that matched the young skin tone of the body made her feel attached. The hair, auburn, like her own, dropped over the bosom covering the whiteness, still revealing the contours. One hand was on the navel, and the other covered her dignity.

She paused. The hands looked misplaced. Then she noticed. The hands did not belong to the girl. Her's were behind her. Unresisting. She saw a faint silhouette standing behind the girl. Silhouette that merged with the canvas. Yet, holding the girl. The hands had wrapped the girl from behind her. Hands that ended with long fingers with nails that had colours stuck under them. An artist's hands. In gentle colours.

The silhouette had eyes that she could see through the scattered hair by her neck. They were open. But they had no opinion. They carried the scent of opium, looking lost in her. For a moment, Sylvia, too, was lost in them.

A thin, translucent satin was covering everything below. It had deep contours, leaving a hint of four legs wrapped. Close.

Her eyes moved to the face. It was a face from her past that she recognized. But the hair was untied as if dishevelled by someone's fingers through them. The eyes were closed, looking inwards. The lips were moist, open as if seeking company. The moist shade of pink was not within the lips, though. It had strayed off the edges. The lips looked kissed. Passionately.

She touched the canvas. The layers of paint had merged into each other visually. Yet to the touch, they felt separated. The darker layer of colour had been covered with light colours. As if her past had been coated with a fresh layer of the present. The top layer was not painted with even brush strokes. Words were sketched in different directions, with different colours, in a strange harmony to fill spaces where colours should have been. Words were written with deep intimacy. Every part of her body was coloured with words. Kissed intimately with words.

She felt a strange urge within to hold her breath. She was already breathless. It was not fatigue or tiredness. It was exhilaration. She closed her eyes, raised her eyes to the ceiling, and emptied herself as she exhaled. Exhaled the tightness and the sensation she felt somewhere deep within. She recognized it. She had not felt it for a decade.

Nigel saw her eyes rolling up and closing. He felt her warm breath. He recognized it. He was still holding her hands. Like a paintbrush. Very lightly. Her hands felt a little colder, moist with a bit of sweat. He had so many desires mixing inside, like colours, that he wanted to splash on her. He wanted to use his hands instead of a brush. To paint her. All over her.

But Nigel kept standing next to her. He had recognized her dignity. Her need for love with respect.

Her knees felt weak. She leaned herself against him. She tilted her head and rested it on his shoulder. He put his arm around her. To protect her.

He kept the book on the table. A lost gust of wind made its way through the open window. The wind touched 'The Memory' on the wall and left a slight, unnoticeable shiver. The wind travelled further. To her 'Limerence' on the table.

It caressed the book and ruffled the pages. An old, forgotten Juliet rose, stuck between the pages, escaped. The wind carried the dry flower to a little planter by the window. The planter held a tea rose, now fully bloomed. Juliet Rose fell in love with Sylvia.

It had now stopped raining outside. Inside, the rain had just begun.

Author's Note

Pufferfish create circular structures with a diameter of two meters and take weeks to be made. The outer ring of the nest consists of a series of mountains and groves and the center is an irregular maze-like pattern. The center is formed with very fine sand particles with respect to the outer portion. It is now thought that they are the most ordered structures created by any fish. It does it for love.

--The End--