It was different tonight. Two feet spaces with two pairs of hands on two laps—screaming distance. A three-legged steel stood alone a few fingers away from us with its eye gazing at the speed of the cars.
After miles of seconds, it clicked.
You took out a stick and lit it up. Beneath the dark corners of our hiding place, the little light of your cigarette brought visuals. I could trace the lines of your face—the worries, the fears and the defeats. I trembled when I watched your lips formed names—I did not make it.
“Odd.” It slipped from my tongue.
“The smokes?” Yes. It was your first time. “We changed. Or are you still asleep?” I hope this is a dream.
I grabbed your camera and saw its shot. Two excited lanes—one red and one light, almost touching—with a single lamppost watching.
“Are you tired?” Was that hesitation in your voice? Tell me I said it right.
“Not yet.” I waited for you to turn around and catch my sorrows.
“Shame.” Your flicked your cigarette on the green grass. You killed the fire with your shoe.
How did we get here?
Check out this week’s prompt:
Sunday Photo Fiction
WORD COUNT: 197
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.