On the banks of the Eel River, the ‘Kenapocomoco,' the ‘Snake Fish,' on a farm near some narrow, leaf-floored woods, a farm near wider, more open fields (of would-be corn and soybeans and alfalfa), Rhine and her husband lived. A few miles from her husband's parents. And a few more miles from where the Eel met its eventual end, merging, in Logansport, the county seat, into the mighty cannonball that was the state's favorite son of water: the enchanted, song-laden Wabash.

The Eel was quiet today. As always, providing some of Indiana's best stream-fishing, which Orinoco, Rhine's husband, was taking advantage of. Out there catching fish. Always catching fish, the two of them. All otters did, though. To freeze, to store. To eat tonight or tomorrow. And just to keep your instincts (and your body's nutritional needs) satisfied. Just to hone your skills. Just to be what you were: an otter.

The immediate banks of the river lined with thick vegetation, and oh, such trees. Oaks, ashes, cottonwood. And maples, too. But, being on the cusp of winter, the trees had lost their flaring, bursting leaves. Had long since lost their lush, summer greens. They were bare, now, in humble respite. In hibernation. In wait. Standing like sparse sentinels. And you knew (as they knew) that they would flower again. And, oh, how so!

That branch of Easter, even removed by months, was not so far away.

Was never so far away.

And which fish (or fishes) would her husband catch today, Rhine didn't know. It was always wonderful to find out. She, herself, would be out there, helping him, but she was doing house-things. And setting up tonight's dinner (which would be fish caught and kept from yesterday, as well as some hearty wheat rolls, and some sweet potatoes, as well as some red apples from harvest).

But, oh, rock bass, smallmouth bass. Channel catfish. Mm. And, bluegill, yes, and red horse suckers. Yes, fish. Many native kinds. And, oh, the thrill of making the catch! With a line, or with your bare paws (as otters could do, and often did). And how the great blue heron, standing on one leg on the other side of the river, would watch you. Wanting what you had. Wishing it had the skill you had. And the kingfishers hovering, and the killdeer blaring, and the sandpipers piping. And, in the cold, the birds would leave (some of them), and it would just be you and the naked trees. And the fish.

The fish couldn't leave. They couldn't migrate.

And neither could you.

And a healthy respect developed between the two. Between sentient and unaware animals. Both of whom had fallen in love with the water. With the river. What was, one hundred miles north and to the west, a rising, shall stream, was here, in this place, a ranging river of anywhere from twenty to one hundred feet wide, five or more feet deep. With a rocky bottom. The water itself being moderately clear, and oh, swift, at a medium, healthy level, with many riffles and pools.

But, Rhine, inside the house, in the kitchen, was lighting candles on the table. With matches from a little, wooden box. The kind you swiped on the box-side, and it lit. Little stick-matches. And she lit one candle, and then another. And then another. Three candles on the table (and wasn't three one of the holier numbers, oh, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit). And she blew out the waning match. And wetted it, to be sure it was completely out, and tossed it into the trash can in the cereal closet (which also housed all the pots and pans, as well as the baking flours and sugars).

The femme otter smiled. Nodding. The table looked good. A nice, pretty tablecloth, all pure and white (matching the season). And the candles, and the plates, spoons, forks, cups. It was all there. The apples, whole, in a little bowl. With knives to slice them up with. And the sweet potatoes still on the stove, and the fish, too. And the rolls cooling on the counter. And the smell of it all, the scent of a fresh, warm dinner, was lovely. One of those lovely ‘life-smells.' A just-made meal, before the eating.

A perfect life, to some, might've been an oversight.

But not to her.

She felt she had one.

She loved her husband, and her family (be them direct or extended), and her home. This Hoosier homestead. Though otters were a ‘minority fur' in Indiana, she still felt just as much a proud, stubborn Hoosier. And, though she didn't have an official, full-time job like Orinoco did, she did most of the farm-work. A lot of it, anyway. In the summer, they both had their paws full with farming (agriculture, grains). But, now, in this season, there wasn't a whole lot to do (being that they didn't have cattle), to be honest. Other than to let it sit. But she was always kept busy with something. The farm, the house. All these parts of her.

At twenty-three (like her husband), fit and healthy, full of energy. And with a beauty and a brightness about her, evident in every step. Her faith driving her, leaving her untouched by the cynicism and weariness of the wider world.

And, tonight, a romantic meal with the one she loved.

As soon as he got in.

Which, judging by the sound of the screen-door swinging open (in the front porch), he was, indeed, back. Prompting Rhine to spin over to the porch, her rudder-tail hanging behind her, balancing her body, she turned the knob, opening the door, and said, "You're back, I see. Any catches?"

Orinoco looked to her, with a whisker-ful smile. "Any catches? What a question," he said, and nodded to the bucket he'd set on the floor. With three big fish in it. "Didn't think I should get any more than that. Didn't know how much room you had in the freezer."

"I've enough room for them. But I best leave them in here ‘til after supper. I can clean them later."

"No argument with that," said the otter, shrugging off his cold-weather attire, taking his hat off. Tossing them onto the little porch-bench (by all the muddy, snowy-weather boots).

"Oh, and wipe your paws, now, before you come in. You didn't wear boots out there. Your foot-paws," Rhine said, with a playful scolding, "all covered in mud! Really," she said, shaking her head.

"Wasn't all that muddy, ma'am," Orinoco replied, looking up. His whiskers giving a singular twitch. Otter whiskers not being the overly-active kind. "I just waded to my knees. I wiped my foot-paws off on the grass."

"Tell that to the spaces between your toes," Rhine teased, lingering in the open doorway.

"I'll wash them in the tub, with the shower-head," he assured, and stood up straight. A few inches taller than she was. "May I come in? I have to get to the bathroom to wash up." The bathroom was just off the kitchen."

"You'll track mud over my clean floor, mister," she repeated. Smiling.

"Well, the longer we stand in the doorway here, the more cold we let into the house. We're not paying to heat the outdoors, are we?"

Rhine still smiled, her dimples showing, and shook her head with mirth. "No, I don't think we rightly are." And she stepped back a bit, and to the side, and gestured toward the bathroom.

And Orinoco treaded there, careful not to track anything onto the floor.

And Rhine let out a little, breathy sigh. Blue eyes shining. And she shut the door, and looked to the stove. "Oh, dear." A quick movement, and going and removing the sweet potatoes from their boil. "Almost forgot about those," she muttered, under her breath. But no harm done. She poured out the water, with the aid of a strainer, and dumped the sweet potatoes into a nice, sturdy bowl. Giving them a few pokes with a fork. They seemed to be just right.

"Sweet potatoes?" Orinoco asked, reemerging.

"Yes, sir. I felt in the mood."

A smile.

"Now, then, paws. I gotta check your paws."

"I cleaned ‘em. What do you think I was just doin' in there ... "

"I gotta check," she insisted.

And he lifted one leg, and then the other, showing only his foot-paws.

"Other paws, too. Come on, now."

"But you are strict, ma'am."

She bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Just looking out for your hygiene."

"I have good hygiene."

"And I plan on keeping it that way," she said, and she turned to go and fill a pitcher of water from the sink, but Orinoco gently took her arm, keeping her in place. Rhine blinked.

"What about your paws? Don't we gotta check them, too?" he whispered. With that hint of hungry need. Just wanting to touch her. Hold her there.

"My paws are perfectly presentable!"

"Then present them," was the challenge.

She giggled airily, looking away, and then looking back at him. Into his rich, brown eyes. "Well," she whispered. "I guess that's only fair."

"Only fair," he whispered back, nodding.

"Very well," she said, taking a few steps backward. So that her back was to the wall. And she bent one knee, lifting her leg, bringing her foot-paw up. "Right foot-paw," she said, showing him. The bottoms of her well-worn blue jeans rolled up a bit (to make the frayed ends not so visible).

Orinoco squinted. "Hmm ... well, okay. I'll give that one a pass."

Another restrained giggle. And she put that foot-paw down. And lifted the other one. "Left."

A nod. "I like the left one better."

"Cheeky otter. They're both the same," she said, putting that foot-paw down, too. Standing, again, on both legs (but still with her back to the unassuming wallpaper).

"Now, your other paws," he said, and he put his paws out. And took hers. And turned them over, to run his fingers along the pads of them. To bump his blunted claws against hers. And he nodded quietly. And then gave her paws a gentle, warm squeeze. "I think those look fine, too," he whispered.

She flushed a bit, beneath the fur. Giving off a bit of extra heat. "Well," she managed, swallowing, "they're just paws."

"Just paws ... " And he smiled, and then took a deep breath through his nose. And looked to the table. "It looks very good. The whole setting," he said.

"Thank you," was her genuine response, as she moved away from the wall. "I do like a good table. Presentation is half of it. We may not have a lot of money, but that doesn't mean I can't give us a nice table."

"It is nice," he repeated. "I wish I had your eye for beauty."

"What makes you say that you don't ... " Rhine moved to fetch the rest of the things. Anything else. The water for their glasses. The ice.

"I'm too ‘male' to have that kind of eye. I'm not a male rodent. I'm a male otter," he reminded.

"Very, very aware of them, Ori," she whispered, sparking. "Mm. And all males can appreciate beauty," she assured.

"I appreciate you," he said. "And you're beautiful. So, I guess there is some truth in that."

Rhine flushed, again, beneath her fur. Hotter, this time. And she drew a breath. "Well ... " Her words failed her. And she cleared her throat. And she looked to him. A tender, linking look. "We should eat our supper," she whispered. "Before it gets cold."

A nod from him.

And she sat in her chair. Orinoco sitting opposite her, here at this modest-sized kitchen table, in the middle of their also-modest kitchen. With the windows that looked out and to the north and south.

And Rhine took a breath, closing her eyes, bowing her head forward. And putting her paws together before her, in a prayer-like formation.

Orinoco quietly did the same.

The two otters, with their voices in quiet unison, giving thanks for their food.

‘Dear God, thank you for this food that nourishes our bodies, and for your love that nourishes our souls. In Jesus' name we pray, amen.'

And deep breaths from both. And eyes opening. And smiles.

And beginning the meal.

The fish, first, being passed. Being cut with the knives. Being transferred to their plates. And then the sweet potatoes being scooped.

"They don't have all that goo on them," Orinoco said.

"No, cause they're fresh ones. These aren't canned kind," Rhine explained.

"Ah."

"They're better. All that goo is just sugar."

"I'm not complaining, dear."

A slight giggle from Rhine. "Yeah, but you wanted that sugary sauce, all the same."

"I can live without it."

"Well, see that you do. I've an interest in you maintaining that trim and healthy figure."

"Do you, now?" He flashed her a grin.

A giggle. "Mm." A slight tilt of the head.

"And why would that be?"

"Just ... just eat your sweet potatoes, Ori," she said, giggling. "Mm." And she sank her fork into her fish. The meat of it still letting off steam.

"It is a good meal," Orinoco said. "Thank you." He nodded his head at her.

"Well, we gotta eat."

"Yeah, but not everyone goes to this trouble. And every day," he said. "I do appreciate it. Thank you."

"Well ... you're welcome," she said, almost shyly. She chewed on some fish, holding her fork above her plate. "You caught some good ones."

A nod. And he chewed, chewed, swallowed. "There's enough to be catching. I'm just glad our part of the river hasn't been over-developed and over-fished." Some rivers had limits to how many fish you could catch per week. Or even had fishing seasons, where you could only fish during certain times of the year. The rest of the time, you'd have to buy whatever you needed at the grocery. But it never tasted the same that way.

And they claimed that there was a tiny dose of mercury in almost every fish. So, you should watch how much you eat. But otters had digestive systems made for them. They didn't have to worry, maybe, as much as other meat-eating furs would've. But, really, the only meat otters ate was the water-born kind. Rhine, once, had eaten clams. She hadn't liked the clams too much. Even when they'd been in a chowder. But she had loved shrimp. Oh, she loved shrimp. When they went out to eat, at restaurants, for special occasions, she always got the shrimp.

"Mother says Ketchy and you are gonna have a day out?"

Rhine swallowed the fish she was chewing. Nodded lightly. "Mm-hmm. Femmes-day-out."

"Up here?"

"No. Well, she'll come up here, and then I'll drive us ... to spend the day in over in Lafayette. Go to the mall there, and the movies, and whatever there is to do."

"Denali coming up with her?"

"I think so. It'll be Saturday. I don't think either of them works on weekends."

"Well, he can watch the games with me and dad. The Purdue/Indiana game will be on. Old Oaken Bucket game. That'll be in Lafayette. May be a crowd."

"I think we'll manage," Rhine said, smiling.

Orinoco nodded. "Well, it'll be good if my brother comes ... " Orinoco and Denali were close. A lot closer than they were with Danube, their other brother, who was living in Minnesota.

"But that's not the whole of the weekend," Rhine trailed. "You and I will still have Saturday night together. And Sunday, after church, and after lunch at your parents' ... "

"I'm not begrudging you and your ‘femmes only' day, dear. You don't have to explain it to me." A pause. A smile. "Though you and that squirrel will probably chatter ‘bout your husbands, I'm sure."

"And if we do?" A smile.

"Well, make sure it's flattering chatter."

A giggle, lightly tapping her fork on her napkin. "Mm. It usually is." A wink.

Orinoco, swallowing the last of his plate's sweet potatoes, asked, "May I have the apple bowl?"

"Mm-hmm." Rhine reached over, picked up the bowl of red apples, and stretched it out to him.

He took it, and set it down. Looking to find the best apple in the bunch.

"They're all pretty good. I tried to get the ones with no bruises," Rhine said. "Or no bruises I could see, anyway."

"I'll try this one," he said, taking his apple of choice. And setting it down on his plate, and using his knife to slice off each side of it. The juice dribbling from the knife and to the plate, and the scent of the tart, fruity sweetness hitting his nose. "Mm. Love apples."

"I was gonna get green, but ... you can never be sure about green."

"No, red apples are the best, you're right."

Rhine nodded, reaching for her water glass. Putting her paw on it. And giving a delightful little shiver at the condensation that had gathered on the glass (due to the ice cubes floating inside). And she picked the glass up, and took some dainty, healthy sips. "Mm." A swallow. Still holding her glass, and saying, "Well, I keep thinkin' ‘bout planting apple trees. I mean, Ketchy says that, down outside Sheridan, they got a whole apple orchard. And they have a country store there. So, you can grow apples in Indiana. I guess it would just take patience. And a lot of tending."

"Grow our own apples?"

"Mm-hmm. Well, it's not something to do right now, but ... maybe, eventually, we could do something like that." She took another sip of water. "We already have our own garden."

"True."

"Apples shouldn't be that much harder to grow than strawberries or something, I should think. But maybe so. Not many furs have apple trees in their yards. Maybe that's why."

Orinoco bit into one of his apple slices. The juice dribbling off his lips. Chew-chew. "Mm." He closed his eyes, chewing, and swallowing.

A head-shaking giggling from her.

"Good," the otter decreed.

"Well ... you can have the whole bowl for now. I'm much more craving the bread," she said, reaching for a roll. Tearing it in two. The still-warm, hearty wheat-roll, which she dabbed some butter on with a smooth, blunt-bladed knife. And she brought it to her muzzle. And took a nip of it, and then a bigger bite, and chew-chewed.

Both of them eating.

Both of them thinking.

Orinoco's eyes trailing to the flapping, flaring flames of the candles, and watching them. Watching them.

Rhine, after a moment, saw him. And said, "Hypnotizing, aren't they?"

A blink. Another blink. "Mm?" He looked to her.

A warm smile. "Candles. The firelight. Hypnotizing."

"It does lull you in," the otter agreed, sighing out, and leaning back in his chair. Picking up another apple slice. His fish was mostly gone, the sweet potatoes were gone. He was closer to being full than not. "I do love candles."

A sigh from him, and a contented nod of agreement.

"I just wish I had flowers, too. In a vase. But ... not much in the way of flowers right now," she said. "Naturally."

"It's okay," he said.

"I do love flowers," she whispered. She loved growing them. Tending to them. Picking them and displaying them. She knew all the flowers by name, and what kind of growing patterns they had, and ...

" ... you're very much like a flower yourself, I think. Only you never wilt, and you're in season all the time."

A flush. And she looked to the sink, and then back to him. "Yeah?" she whispered.

"Mm-hmm." A nod. And he slowly picked up his water-glass. The edge of which hovered just beyond his lips. "You're my water lily," he whispered.

Rhine's eyes watered, and she smoothed her shirt, swallowing, her eyes darting. "Well ... " And, again, she found herself looking directly at him. "Thank you," she mouthed.

"I mean it," he mouthed back, just as quiet.

The flames still flapping, still glowing. Still casting an extra bit of warmth about the table, about the kitchen, and about them.

And they proceeded through the remainder of their supper.

And proceeded to clean up.

And proceeded to wind up, somehow, lazily on the couch, in the near-dark (but dim enough to see all you really needed to see).

The sun having gone down.

And their heartbeats having gone up.

"Ori ... "

"Mm?" The male was on his bare back, beneath her, head on a couch-pillow. And his love, lighter, lying atop of him. Belly-to-belly. Her breasts sinking against his chest, and that pelt of rich-brown fur, while her rudder-tail jutted out behind her, trailing. His own muscular tail half-visible, half-trailing off the couch. And half-pinned beneath his own weight.

"It's so dark so early," she whispered. "Like it should be hours further into the night."

His arms wrapped round her furry form, round her back. Hugging her down, gently.

"But I'm not tired," she continued. "I'm not ... "

"Nor am I, dear," he whispered. And a breath. Nose against her soft, scented cheek. She smelled of home. Of comfort. Of apples and cinnamon and things.

He smelled of safety. Of water. Her nose, too, breathing deep of her love. The soft, sprawling scents that remained when the lack of light prevented the eyes from having full reign. Too often, too many relied on sight. But, oh, the joys and subtleties of the less obvious senses, and how they could work in any degree of illumination.

Their clothes were in a soft, careful pile on the carpeted floor, between the couch and the coffee table. Reflecting the way in which they'd undressed.

In a slow, reverent way. A slow, drinking way.

Tonight, in a slow-burning state. The pounding, youthful hype that sometimes (and rightfully) gripped them had, now, given them a bye.

No, in their maturity, they felt no rush.

Let it simmer.

Simmer.

His strong, padded paws, a tiny bit rough (from their extended exposure to the cold river water) ran up and down her back. The small of her back. And the curve of her spine, to the base of her magnificent, sturdy tail. That ‘rudder like no other,' which, like a ship at sea, could steer the course of his mind with a single movement.

A single veer.

And she sighed, settling against him. Feeling warm, warmer, despite the darkening, winter-welcoming chill outside the walls and windows of this old, personality-etched house. Her own paws weakly clutching at his pelt. And her muzzle nibbling, tenderly, on his bare shoulders. Wetting his fur. And her hips nestled to his, but not yet in obvious arousal. But aroused she was, all the same, breathing a little bit faster.

Yearning a little bit harder.

For this closeness like no other closeness.

For this spiritual intimacy. Thank you, dear God, for these joys. Oh, Artist and Architect of all, thank you for these designs, and these emotions. These memories. These times.

Oh, blessed.

As, tenderly, closer, they became, as the minutes melted by them. As they became a perfect male and femme tangle of nibbles, brushes, nips, and touches. Warm fur and throaty purrs.

And then came the kisses.

The wet lip-licking, the tiny breath-stealing. And, oh, the heat of the tongue-tasting. Impossible not to lose focus on anything but the act.

Impossible not to get lost in this.

Impossible not to want more.

The two otters, husband and wife, in the earliness of the night, writhing beautifully, like the ‘snake-fish' river that went past their home. Flowing with a steady, clear sense of purpose. Overflowing from the love.