One day he’s going to see it. One day she won’t be paying enough attention, and the collar of her shirt will gape a little too wide, allow just enough light in just deep enough to see something flash like living opal in the pitch black, earthen tangle of roots in the depths of her. His soul will recognize the throne room of god in the obscenity of her effortless fertility, riches beyond comprehension buried like Pompeii. But alive. Alive, crushingly ravenously joyously contentedly alive. Buried so deeply he’ll question if he saw anything at all, but he will know and he will understand. And he will never recover from the recognition of loss. He has never been a foolish or incompetent man. If only he were.