They drove in silence for a long time.
They were distracted by the dead beige of the trees, only scenic as their regular surroundings were of a dead gray pavement.
She thought for a moment. Half-whispering "Do you still love me?"
"Yes." Without hesitation he responds, because he's honest and he daydreams.
"Good. I missed you."
She extended her inquisitive hand to to take his.
"I missed you too." Though in disbelief of the current state of things, he plays along. How long will this dream last? How long will reality be a holding and not a pining?
"Don't ever hurt me again."
"Okay." She spoke with the faintest melancholy, the subtlest sincerity. But it was still there.
In earnest conviction, they went back to their scenery.
Holding hands in the lap of her jeans.
Here I am
- Some kinda four 'o' clock tragedy
- New York, NY, United States
- I am a writer. I believe all engaging writing is a precious balance between aural and visual aesthetic, emotional and intellectual depth. I am an "intense" young man, and I've yet to find someone willing to contest that claim. I am not rated G, nor is my writing. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter."