We walked along the west rim of the valley sloping to the last part undeveloped-- horse trails soon to be a giant shopping complex. You showed me your old house, your husband's school, the rooms they taught old math to both of you twelve years ago. You wanted to make it in the field next to the gym, to wipe out a decade of buying clothes, of having kids, of living for a man who always brought you gifts, who never lied and never thought that there was more than this. I see his handsome face beside me as I kiss you here, his astonished breath-- his jacket shields the kids. He waves his hands; he begs you to come back. You close your eyes and laugh.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com