Theo could never leave. Her eyes do not roam, because what is hers has already been found. She talks endlessly about what will be, and at night she dreams her plans, awake or otherwise. I hear her talking in her sleep, curled beside me. Sometimes she will reach out, semi-conscious, to check I am still in the bed next to her. Perhaps it is also to check that I’ve not gone to find the key, the key which opens the gate, the gate which will let me through to the lake. I know Bacchus has hidden it, and no matter how much I plead, he will not say a word. He is resolute, almost made of stone, his hand unwavering as he paints paints paints. For him to be so calm is practically maddening, as he usually cannot sit still. But I have seen the look between him and Theo, and I know when to leave the room.
I know that Theo will follow me, usher me behind my desk and place a pen in my hand. Most often, I will write a letter to you, and when that letter is finished, it gets filed away in a wooden chest. Imagine, I have a stack of paper three feet tall, three feet closer to you but no stairway can surpass such heights. A ladder cannot be put to the moon. A rope will not fall from the sky to carry me away. So I sit in my chair, and scribble rapidly, feet not given to rising off the ground. Theo, incredible Theo, watches the ink bruise, satisfied. If she is exhausted, she has shown no sign of it yet. I guess she takes strength from knowing my letters will always remain unanswered, and that the dialogue between she and I will always remain a constant.