How

He had asked her what she knew about heaven.

Her eyes furrowed as she stared into his. They were the perfect shade of sagey green, with stripes of lighter blue and dancing gold that you would never notice without being this close. There was a brown circle around the center and she watched it move, in and out, ever so slightly, as he stared unabashedly back.

He didn't believe in God.

But she did.

She believed so fervently that he asked her and trusted her answer. She kept staring into those eyes, looking from one eye to the other, seeking something inside. Looking for the his source, the part of him she knew must know about heaven.

She didn't know how to answer his question. How to describe heaven? How could he not know? Heaven felt like her playground. Her spot she could return to when the world got too wearying. Heaven had all her answers. She and he and heaven were all made of the same stuff. She started to say something, then paused, furrowing her brow again. She started again. And stopped. She did it maybe eight times.

His finger moved slowly around her hand, swirling lightly up her index finger, around her palm, up another finger...

It wasn't helping.

She darted even deeper into his eyes. How could he not know? She demanded. Why haven't you been telling him? 

He did know. She was sure of it. He just didn't know he knew. He had to know. How could she remind him? What could she say that would make it all familiar?

He was getting restless. His eyes moved from hers. She sighed. She'd thought too long again, without saying anything. She was always doing that.