arrange: [dramatic lights and shadows]..and advance.

It's these creases in the faux wood paneling that give it away.  It's those circumstantial gaps and particles of false snow clinging to unnatural surfaces.  It was the fake, dual suns semi-rising.   In short, falseness.  Falseness was everywhere.

"Do you remember the way we ate the ghee in the firelight, the way you captured the Victorian curlicues bas-reliefed to my palm?"

I did.  It all.

"No, I don't."

It's always those lightspears stabbing the spaces between.  Prying them wider, wedging the crevasse vaster and faster.  We are all clamoring, for her.  For authenticity.   

I had sat inside the bedframe as she allen-wrenched it all together, my rectangular cell.  Then I spent the morning hours looking up Amish barn raising, watching the sun's palmleaf light fingers fan across the empty mattress; the thin brown sheets a handful of hours from the dryer, still lavendering my room.
 
"Here it is, your double entendre: post and beam like a century-old sun."

She laughs and then it becomes real.