Eve: Except nothing happens. That was what the fruit was about: one bite and boredom exploded like juice to fill our mouths.
Adam: Except it wasn't juice. It was not any kind of matter, although it would fly up to consume us, although all we can do is pin it down with words, an entire language.
Eve: How long have we been walking? Juice. How apt. How boredom drags itself out from us through our skin as sweat, floods the space between my legs with liquid fire.
Adam: It is also a vacuum. And the body is sucked in to fill it. Desire. This is what the word means.
Eve: Frustration follows. Then weariness. Cyclical. With an unstoppable rhythm: our hearts keep the time, drum out its indifferent tempo.
Adam: We will have each other. Or more of us if we have to.
Eve: Let us rest here. We will build a fire for the night, as nights are longer here. And the cold will be unbearable.
Cyril Wong is the author of three collections of poetry: Squatting Quietly, The End Of His Orbit and Below: Absence. He lives in Singapore.