She swore up and down that it came from the bottom of the ocean. From an unfathomable cave or from the stomach of some creature who could produce perfect rocks, swollen and round, shiny and at the same time pulsating with a sort of glow that spread outward onto her fingertips, onto his face. He believed it came from outerspace. Chip off a meteroite. Belonging to some foreign, unlivable surface.
And so they differed. She thought she could capture the earth, in all its burgeoning, expansive glory. He believed he could capture the sky and the great beyond, and furthermore, he believed he could fit it all in the scaley skin of his palm.
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