The color green, surely, was born and given a name in the jungle. A tree is Fern Green, which is not the same as Laurel Green. The stem of a budding plant is Mantis Green, which is different from Myrtle Green. Pine Green. Sap Green. India Green. Brunswick Green. None of which should be confused with Spanish Green, Sea Green, Jade Green, Harlequin Green or even Yellow Green. If the couple were to spend one year in Costa Rica per each hue of green they find, they'd be here many more lifetimes.
They embrace inside a tree, because it's raining, the howling monkeys are making terrifying calls, the lightning is of apocalyptic proportions, and because she is frightened. (He is too, a little, only he wouldn't admit it.) Thunderous bolts of blinding light hit nearby. They count. One, two, three. Too close for comfort. They haven't seen anyone in hours and they are deep in the woods. It was sunny when they started their jungle walk; they don't have umbrellas, rain jackets, proper boots, or water, or food, or telephones. They are alone in a jungle downpour, the sound of which is nowhere near as soothing as the Nature Sounds tracks yoga teachers listen to. It sounds like the crust of the earth is cracking beneath their feet, like some ancient dragon has just woken up after centuries of hibernation and he is not happy. They find a Ceiba tree--a towering leviathan--whose colossal trunk has been carved out by the elements. They dive into each other's arms, shaking from cold and fear.
So, this is how we die, she thinks.
This is fantastic, he thinks.
But they don't say anything. They hold each other inside the belly of the tree and together, they wait for the sun.