Dark outside,

Black inside,

Save the white glow of a headlamp,

Illuminating the gray floor before me.

Dust hangs in the air,

Chalky construction dust,

With powder I kick up,

As we walk farther along.

I chat with the woman beside me,

Our voices low,

Since even whispering can carry,

And we can’t be discovered.

But somehow we breach the subject:

Show tunes, of all things.

We share our favorites,

Yet agree on one.

She starts singing first,

Her soprano pitch haunting,

Her vibrato operatic,

As it rings in my ears and all around us.

As she stops, I come in,

My tenor more mellow,

My vibrato slightly halting,

As it stumbles into the void.

We switch back and forth,

And finally sing together,

Her voice even better,

Mine getting stronger,

Until we arrive at the end of the song,

With much of the path left to go,

And we settle into silence,

Listening to the echo.

Farther down,

A man walks in the shadows,

Using his flashlight sparingly,

And enjoying the quiet.

Then the song reaches him,

A beautiful woman,

A frightening phantom,

Their voices calling to him.

We catch up with him,

Find him sitting against the wall,

He asks who was singing,

And we answer.

He says it was beautiful.