A key to the cabin Ava has not, from when we broke up, but a gust from the boot of her kick whips through a crack in the back door. Anxiety races beneath my olive flesh, warming to what’s left of a winter’s chill; standing there, she is. Ava’s jet-black hair cascades to the small of her back, and the black of her dress mesh well with the diamonds on her wrist. A watch that of gold she holds, bending to a knee, asking me to marry, please.
(© 2021 AC)