She was not waving at him, this had to be called heat waving. If anything, it was a greeting of new fur.


He sent a bure greeting back, but didn’t reveal his accent yet. Normally meeting somesheep is a known two way clear cut street, although streets are usually not made out of cuttable material. But being in that street, you are at one end, looking at the other end, and the other does the same, mirror-style (oh, how we miss mirr!). There are two ways how this can work out.


You either know what to do or you do not. When you don’t, the world just ends there. The story too. Silence is not always the correct way to say something, neither is ending something always a good way to keep things going inside you. But when you do know what to do, every step you take will get you further on that street, where the length of the sidewalk is continuously asking you which direction you will go. You still know what to do? Still? Sure?


It stops asking when you are close enough to let your voice be heard yourself. By him. Usually the currency is HI. You give one, you get one back. Although you have taken many steps, this is considered step one.


Was it because of the unfamiliarity of the street that she held back? The temperature brought memories alive. Torrid ones. She wished she could take off her fur, but if she would have done, he would see her so naked. Perhaps because of all this, or because all of nothing she just heat wave at him from afar. And why wander outside her meadow?


She saw drops falling from his lips. Was it the heat that made him sweat? Or did she see it correctly and did the drops actually spell feek when he looked back at her?


His currency was a gander, wrapped without a question mark: ‘Ask me something original .’


“When was the last time you measured yourself?”


“Say whut now? You do know your savage way around here, so to see. Working or just wondering the streets?”


She freed him from confusion: “I was referring to body height. And because I have not met you yet, I somehow do not ‘see’ you. Hence the question. Do you mind?”


“Are you coddin me? So I can win or lose it by an inch here? Is it all numbers for you?”


From the first step on the pavement he confused her, but in a way that made her want to walk astray. Towards him, wherever it (or he) would lead her.


Not all numbers, confessed she. “But some things in the world are born together in my mind. The same way when you are born a male sheep, you automatically are male. You cannot be just born a sheep, can you? But the funny thing is, maleness cannot actually be seen. In my meadow maleness is defined by concrete things, and I don’t even mean that yoke you thought I was referring to, when I talked about length. Every meadow has his own definitions of the world. Even the sheep can have their own versions of meadow definitions.”


“Wah!’ And do I measure up?”


“That’s why I posed the question. I need a male sheep by my side who is taller than me, because for me a male sheep can only be taller than a female sheep.”


“And what if he is not? Then he is not a male sheep any more?” His accent was more lovely than his question.


“He is, but like I said: not for me.”


Admittingly, it was too hot to argue numbers. He would talk to her, for hours, she knew. Not even in fantasy, but in reality he turned the pages of her internal diary and read out loud what she was too shy for to admit herself. Her own giggling even made the surrounding flowers smile.


‘Your voice drops.’ It was him who said this. Out of the blue. It was just a notification, as if a rain drop had just fallen from above.


“Does it?” She had heard this before, but somehow the things closest to you are the hardest to see clearly. Or she hadn’t heard her own voice for a long time. There could be even a third explanation.


‘Yes, your voice drops. It does that every time you secretly feel that you fancy me.’