The Somnambulist

The glacial touch of memories floating in her sea of thoughts like frazil ice sends atavistic frissons down her spine, reminiscent of the kind she used to feel when the two indulged in the quietly entertaining interplay of gaze and glance. Would she have imagined during those comfortable sunny days - as she danced amongst the thrips swarming the heathland, mentally replaying another morning of non-conversation with the tall somnambulist - that a time would arrive when she would turn this wistful? In those years she was spry as the twinkle of stars, and the sylvan fae, and still is,  yet her waking thoughts are now tinged with a vague ache of wanting something she could never have. Often she admonishes herself for feeling this sentimental, but then the little jinn in her mind - a minion of Aphrodite, she imagines - pipes up, 'Was he not a menhir amongst boulders?'
She never satisfies the jinn with a response.