[ Alexandrie releases her hold on the glass to reach for her friend’s hand and squeeze— a little pulse: thank you— and then lace their fingers again as if through this mooring she could keep the boat of her heart from escaping out into the storm again. ]

I do not think she knows I know, and so I hope whatever hand placed her does not either.

I need to find that hand before I— [ a long breath, another little squeeze. ] We. Before we can displace her.

And I need other eyes to look; whoever is doing this knows very well how to divert—

[ Eyes. Alexandrie is far enough out of herself now, here in the embrace of this absurd perfect construction of a boat, to register more about Gwenaëlle than “friend” and “safe”. The wine glass is abandoned entirely onto whatever surface is close enough to hold it so she can lift featherlight fingers to touch the cheek beneath that golden eye.

It is not pity or concern that softens Alexandrie’s face; never those things between lionesses. Reverence, perhaps. Love. The touch itself is a question: how? ]