"Come into the moonlight," he cooes tauntingly. His voice is a wonderful bass, and I bet that he could pull off a great vibrato. "Let me see your face."
"Come into the darkness," I say, "Where looks do not matter."
"Are you afraid that I will see you?"
"Do you prefer to distract me with the light which becomes a mask?"
He steps one foot into the shadows of the juniper bush. His rough hand stretches in, and he grasps my wrist.
"You would not."
He pulls out one of my pale arms, and remarks, "You do not see the sun often."
I observe his own tan skin, "You yourself seem to have an affair with the sun."
He looks up, and I follow his gaze. "The sun is not here, my dear. Come into the moonlight."
I do so. He brings our arms outwards, and begins to sway the two of us.
"This moonlit mask of yours is beautiful," he says. His cheek is to mine, and I can tell that he is not looking at me.
I laugh, not looking at him either. "So is yours."