The streetlight shrouded me as I sat in a dark truck beside a maple tree after the day’s rays withdrew from a belated neutral position.
My heart raced with palpitations of neutrality.
I flashed my brights.
Sara jumped out of her bedroom window, creeping as though each step might trigger landmines.
Sara told me that the slightest noise startled her father awake.
She cleared the fence, tearing the skirt I had just asked her not to rip.
Sara’s mistakes had caught us in the act as though we needed company; her mother rang her phone mid-thrust in my grandfather’s barn.
I’d been addicted to the tale of a girl who fogged up my passenger window before the sun trailed shadows to replace darkness with rays that spread the sky.
Sara’s mother entered her room that morning, telling her she was running late for her first day of college. But when she saw Sara sleeping in her clothes, her mother smiled.
“And that night is why you’re here, Amy,” Sara said.
Twitter – @AC0040
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