Short Story // Requiem for a Girl (2012)

By M. Wobrak

Originally published in AEONS Literary Magazine, Norwin High School (2012)

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The air in the dimly lit drawing room tasted of death. The stench was thinly masked by the clusters of burning scented candles placed on every flat, dusty surface in the room. But it clung. It made its presence known. In the farthest corner of the infinitesimal space, disorderly piles of worn musical scores overflowed from their wicker basket and cluttered the floor beside the pristine Steinway piano, illuminated by a small candelabrum placed carefully on the dust-covered dresser nearby.

A young man, hair wild from unrest, eyes wide from that fifth cup of tar black coffee, sat on the piano bench, smoking a cigarette. He stared at the blank page of sheet music in front of him. His long fingers caressed the ivory, hesitantly at first, a sad, mournful melody flowing from them. Simple, beautiful. These things were absolutely true, yet there was something not yet perfect about the sound. It was too simple. She was a complex girl. A realist draped in a jacket made from the sky. You could love her for a lifetime and still find new, captivating things to learn about her every single day. She couldn’t be described in a single word or a paragraph or a page. It would take an entire novel to describe her, one that would take one’s whole life to write. It would never truly be finished. This one paltry little melody wasn’t enough.

As he sat, he thought; he recalled every small detail of her face. He remembered her impish smile, the way her lips twisted up into something beautiful and the scowl she wore when she became frustrated, if only for a moment. Her wide, brown eyes were the shade of a walnut. Whenever he thought of her, his mind immediately wandered to the mornings when they would have breakfast in the university café after a long night of talking and studying. Those mornings came often. He would order orange juice and a bagel, while she asked for a cup of coffee, no milk. That was her usual. It reminded her of her life, she always said. Its taste was strong and bitter, yet one small additive could turn it sweet and warm and inviting. It could easily be altered. So it could, he supposed. But he drank the coffee for inspiration. In truth, he hated the stuff.

His mind wandered to another particular time that protruded from the depths of his memory: the first time he had played for her. She was just a freshman, a mathematics major with a budding interest in photography. They had met in the conservatory one December day when everyone else was home for break, while he was practicing a concerto for an upcoming performance in one of the spacious practice rooms. She knocked lightly on his door, asking if she could take his photo for a photography class she was taking. He cheerfully obliged, and she snapped a photo of him leaning on the top of the upright piano. He had complimented her smile. It was the first thing he had noticed about her, physically. Her face flushed, and she complimented his playing, saying she played a little, but not nearly as well as he did. He offered her lessons, mostly as an excuse to see her again. He knew from first glance she was a girl he wanted to see again. Every Tuesday thereafter, they met in the conservatory for lessons. Memories of that first day always found their way into his mind.

I have to get this perfect, he thought to himself. His jaw pressed in a hard line, holding back the tears he could feel forming. He cradled his head in his hands, lost inside himself for a long moment. Thinking honestly caused him pain at times, the memories of this girl, this fantastic girl, each a scar etched deep into his mind. A broken heart is no light thing. I’ll see her one day, though. I can play it for her. It’ll be soon.

One more cup of coffee. A glass of something stronger. Another cigarette. Another glass. One more attempt to get it just right.

No, he thought. That’s not right either. It was too diminished. He couldn’t let that happen to the memories. He pounded his hands once on keys, creating a cacophony of noise. He let the dissonance ring for a moment until he was engulfed by silence.

The sound of a door opening somewhere in the flat startled him. The sound of heels on the wooden floor clicked down the hallway, echoing in the small space. The sound stopped. He looked up from the scrawled upon page questioningly, his eyes holding a melancholy gaze. It was her closest friend, a pretty girl from photography class, standing in the doorway wearing a vintage-looking black lace dress. Her black tights had a patch on the knee, simultaneously hiding and highlighting their well-worn quality. She held an overflowing arrangement of dull, pastel flowers in her arms. She came this early to check on him, he thought. The young man returned within himself, thinking he would have bought her the most beautiful, brightly colored flowers he could find, had he had the chance. Blue roses. Golden daffodils. Beautiful red poppies. Anything but those half-dead things.

Her friend asked how he was holding up, awkwardly putting a hand on his shoulder, a clear attempt at compassion. She clearly felt uncomfortable though, as they had maybe met once before, at a party. The one thing they had in common was their grief. The young man offered no response. She inquired as to if he had gotten any sleep, trying desperately to get him to talk. Still no response. Exasperated, she threw her hands up and said, “We have to leave soon, sorry… I’m upset, too, you know. You weren’t the only one who was hurt by this. We shouldn’t be late. For her.”

The young man spun around on the bench, his eyes suddenly dark, intense. “I need to finish this.” His eyes grew sad again, a look of desperation clear upon his face. “Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t leave without finishing….”

Somehow, she understood, nodding her head slowly. She gestured toward to the cuckoo clock on the wall, the bird popping in and out of the little door on its façade, letting him know they needed to leave in about three hours. Six o’clock. The young man nodded and turned again. She stood in the doorway for a few minutes more before clicking back down the hallway in her loud heels. She waited in the kitchen, watching an old movie on the small television set on the counter.

For two more hours, the young man poured himself over that piano. He drained his soul onto the keys, sewed his heart to the paper, drowned the rests in his tears, spilled his memories into each and every black note that he scribbled. He began to feel almost unwell, repeating and rewriting, composing and erasing, scratching the page and tugging on the ends of his hair.

By five, the melody was very much similar to the way it was before, but there was still something minute, almost undetectable that caused it to take on some different, unexpected quality. It was simultaneously sweet as milk chocolate and bitter as a broken heart. So fantastically, absolutely, her. The girl he loved, the girl he missed, the girl he couldn’t live without.

The low drone coming from the kitchen ceased. The sound of heels on the wood echoed again. At the doorway, her friend stood, asking if he had finished, because he needed to change out of his pajamas before they left the apartment.

“Ah, right. I did finish. Give me a minute to compose myself.” He half-smiled at no one in particular.

After getting ready, the young man and the girl’s friend slipped into his old 1980s Honda Civic and drove ten miles in complete silence. Tension and uncomfortable stillness made the air in the small cabin go stale. Soon enough, they pulled into the cobblestone parking lot of Watson & Holcomb Funeral Home and slipped inside, relatively quiet. Everyone was standing around in black, talking amongst the colorless flower arrangements. It made for a sober scene. It took his every might not to give in and cry. A few people, mostly acquaintances from the university, approached him, giving him their condolences, telling him what a lovely girl she was, like he didn’t already know that and they did. Her friend leaned over and whispered to him, asking if these people even knew her at all. It was exactly what was on his mind.

After the milling around died down, everyone sat down in the padded folding chairs placed before her closed casket. A priest got up and began speaking about how God would welcome her into His Kingdom soon and how she’d be happy there. He thought about how she never went to church or prayed. Her parents got up, and that was the worst. Her mother was a slight woman, with eyes as wide as her daughter’s and her smile hidden smeared away by the grief. Her father, normally tall and overwhelming, looked nearly as meek as his wife. Losing a child changes a person. Try as he might, the young man could barely pay attention. His mind kept wandering back to the days and nights they had spent in each other’s company. They spoke softly, almost apologizing for asking her to come home for Christmas when they knew there was a terrible snowstorm on the way. It was painfully clear they blamed themselves for what happened. It hurt the young man to listen. He knew how she had had her mind set months beforehand that she would visit over Christmas after having not seen them for months. Even if they had asked her not to come, she wouldn’t have listened.

After they had finished their tearful speech, her mother motioned a small, frail hand towards him, an indicator that it was his turn to speak. Before rising from his chair, the girl’s friend placed a hand on his shoulder for a moment. She smiled, encouragingly. He returned it half-heartedly.

Slowly, the young man made his way to the piano bench at the front of the room. He did not stop at the podium to say anything. No explanation would be necessary. He placed his coffee cup on the piano’s top, taking great care not to spill it on the instrument. It wasn’t anything like his Steinway; it was really nothing special. She never sat with him on this bench and listened to him play for her. She never leaned over and kissed him on the mouth here. She never placed her hand on his and traced the lines of his knuckles on this bench. It held no sentimental value to him, but it would have to do. He pushed the torrent of memories from his mind and squeezed his eyes shut, opening them a moment later.

He lowered himself onto the seat before straightening his suit and tentatively stroking the ivory keys, playing before his love one last time.

Short Story // Emotional Rollercoaster (2011)

By M. Wobrak

Originally published in AEONS Literary Magazine, Norwin High School (2011)

Content Warning: Mention of suicide / themes of mental illness

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The amusement park gates jut from the ground like monstrous, primary-colored stalagmites. Frightening faces of clowns glare down at me from their place on a brightly-hued banner. The cheery carnival tune playing over and over again on the park’s loud speaker begins to take on a sickly, almost demented tone the longer I listen… Screams rip through the air as a rollercoaster speeds down a steep slope. It’s sickening me.

Many children would give up their allowances for a week for an opportunity to visit the amusement park. Such a thing is any normal child’s dream; spending the day riding wooden rollercoasters and eating sugary foods until they throw up, only to laugh it off and do it again. It’s very different for me. Amusement parks are simply a nightmare. They remind me of everything wrong in my life. Everything I don’t have.

A normal life. A mother. My sanity.

I’m just like my mother, I swear.

I haven’t been to an amusement park since I was nine years old, and for good reason. I’ve been haunted for the last eight years by thoughts of that experience. It’s like they’re a disease, plaguing my mind every day. Or maybe they’re more like a malevolent ghost—haunting, waiting to get revenge on some poor soul who had done him wrong in a past life.

I always knew my family was messed up. That was just the day when it all went to hell.

Shaking, I slowly approach the ticket seller with my $15 admission in hand, ready to run head on into the fearful darkness.

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Never before had it crossed my mind how my life could change in a heartbeat. After all, what did I have to worry about? I was just a nine year old boy; all I had to worry about was soccer and schoolwork, right? The worst that could happen to me was to break a leg tripping over the soccer ball (true story, it had happened before) or forget to do my math worksheet. But I loved math, and I was good at it; I wouldn’t forget. How could anything worse than that possibly happen?

The thing is, that day started just as any other day for me would, so I wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary. Wake up to dad screaming to get my butt out of bed, often using the more crude way to say it. Trudge downstairs after staying in bed another five minutes. Sneak a Hershey Kiss out of the pantry to eat after breakfast—never risking to take more than one for fear of getting caught by dad. I didn’t want to see what would happen with his temper. I’d spend an hour every Saturday morning reading the comics like mom used to, laughing even though I didn’t comprehend the political nature of the satire. I always wanted to be just like her, at least when she was happy.

Well, as it turns out, I’ve inherited the part I always feared I would from mom. Rather than getting the good mom genes—her wit or sarcastic sense of humor—I wound up with the same illness she had. Always going from up, to down, a little higher, then way down… Coasting at different altitudes on an emotional rollercoaster. I think that’s part of the reason why I’m so afraid of rollercoasters. They remind me too much of how I’m becoming my mother.

Really, she used to be a beautiful woman. She wasn’t always the manic depressive I knew. For much of her life, she was a moderately successful (and happy) poet and artist who really knew a lot about human psychology. Her poems and art reflected who she was—a beautiful soul, with her own share of quirks. Who knows why she ended up with my deadbeat dad, a no-nonsense laywer who was never home and had a drinking problem. They met at a Pink Floyd concert in the 70s as freshmen in college—the one thing that they actually shared a common love for. Mom was happy for awhile, but I think she always had a shadow of the illness lurking in the back of her mind. As dad drank more and more, she became unhappier and unhappier, to the point where the shadow materialized into something more, something deeper, something darker.

Reading through her leather-bound notebooks filled cover-to-cover with beautifully written poems, you can create a rough timeline of when the shadow eclipsed her mind. The earlier notebooks are full of poems telling of childhood and love, the little things in life that make it so incredibly beautiful. The later ones progressively morph into depressing things, the ramblings of a woman losing her grasp on her emotions. Dad didn’t help much either, I’ve been growing to realize…

Nine year old me had only just looked up from my comics when the hulking form of dad blocked out the light from the chandelier. “We’re going to the amusement park today,” he told me, unemotionally. ‘Stoic’ and ‘unemotional’ were generally his default attitudes.

I had looked past dad to see mom standing there with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes puffy. Mom was out of bed; that was a good sign. She’s been in bed for at least a week. I noticed that a large red mark had appeared on her face. She tried to smile convincingly, like this was a good thing. Even nine year old me knew she was hurting. She was still down, I supposed. Maybe she hadn’t taken her medication again. She’d been that way for awhile. I thought to myself, There’s nothing to worry about. She’ll be fine as soon as she takes her meds. At least she’s out of bed.

We left as soon as I ran excitedly upstairs, throwing together a drawstring bag of essential things in record time: money for the arcade, sunscreen so I didn’t burn, and a change of clothes for the water rides. The three of us piled into dad’s old hippie van (the one he rarely took out of the house), staying silent for the entire forty-five minute ride. The silence didn’t faze me; I was practically bouncing up and down in my seat, tuning out the rest of the world in my enthusiasm.

As we pulled into the park’s parking lot, I stared, starry-eyed, at the childish wonders around me. How tall the rollercoasters were! Those bright lights! I couldn’t wait to get out of the van to see the rest of the park. Maybe, for even a short while, I could’ve been like a normal child. The tall, multi-colored pillars that stood just out front of the entrance were welcoming. They seemed to call to me, inviting me inside their great wrought-iron gates. A banner announcing “Welcome to Funland!“ in large, colorful print greeted me with a jolly-looking pair of clowns, smiling down on me. I couldn’t have been more excited for anything.

I had the time of my life going on rides, shoving handfuls of sugary sweets in my mouth, gaping at the pure amazement of the place. I had nearly forgotten about all my problems with all my fascination. Well, that’s a lie. I had completely forgotten, until mom and dad started fighting.

We were in line for the Comet Coaster, and mom was starting to get down again, depression seeping through her façade and dripping in her voice. Something snapped inside dad then. He always did have a fiery temper, but never before had I seen him so terrifyingly angry. His face looked like a tomato as he screamed at mom, making a scene in front of a line of disoriented park guests.

“I can’t put up with this rollercoaster anymore, Lillian!” Even as young as I was at the time, I knew he wasn’t referring to the Comet Coaster. I could feel my world crumbling around me with every word he spat. I began to hate anything having to do with that park. How could it be such a good thing when this was happening here? Would it happen again if we ever returned? Surely this wasn’t a place I’d care to come back to.

The rest of that day had consisted of a blur of tears, depression, and angry arguments in the car ride home. Mom was crying, dad was yelling. He had never cooled down from before. Words like “divorce” were thrown around. It’s actually pretty funny, mom seemed to be forced into her rollercoaster life partly by dad, and then there he sat in the driver’s seat, acting like he was the one suffering. How had things gone so wrong in such little time? Had it been going on all this time and I didn’t realize? Maybe that’s why mom was crying earlier…

My mind was assaulted with too much information to comprehend that night.

That’s probably a big reason why I could barely function and comprehend anything the morning after when I tramped down the stairs and saw dad sitting at the breakfast table with his head cradled in his hands facing the tabletop, elbows on the edge of the table. His shoulders were rising and falling erratically, almost like he was crying… wait, he was crying. I had never seen him cry before, and that was also the last time I ever saw him emotional in that sense. Slowly I tiptoed towards him, afraid he would be angry if he heard me. My young mind didn’t realize the severity of the situation, nor could I fathom what could possibly make my father cry. Hesitantly, I inquired, “Where’s mom?”

Without looking up from the table, dad choked out between tears, “Your mom is gone, son… She… she… she killed herself last night. I know we both loved her…” his voice trailed off, strangled by tears. He pushed a note towards me. His shoulders shook even more violently as the sobbing grew worse. I grabbed the note, stuffing it into my pocket and raced upstairs, tears welling in my eyes.

Now looking back at that, I think to myself, Yeah, sure you did, dad. Is that why you slapped her around? I didn’t know they called that “love” nowadays.

It was around then that the shadow began to manifest in my mind, dark tendrils entwining around my emotions, just as it did my mother.

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Now, eight years later, I know I have to face this on my own. After all, who do I really have in life? I wouldn’t even bother kidding myself by saying dad. He’s still too busy drinking his problems away and hitting me to actually care at all. I have no one. And this isn’t just my depression talking either. I’m up at the moment. If I was down, there’s no way I would ever be able to do what I’m doing. I wouldn’t be able to even get out of bed, let alone drive forty-five minutes in the car. Chances are dad won’t even notice it’s gone.

Maybe I should turn back now, leave while I can… No, I can’t. I can’t leave. I have to do this. I can’t spend my entire life running from my fears. That’s what mom did. Fear will not have free reign over my life as it did hers.

I may be like her in the aspect we’re both ill, but I will not follow in her footsteps here. It’s funny—I used to idolize mom when she was happy. I tried to be just like her. Well, now that couldn’t be farther down my list of desires.

I pull the note that dad pushed towards me at breakfast eight years ago out of the pocket. The one that mom wrote. I had kept it all this time. My eyes run over the short lines of graphite scrawled on the page. It is another of mom’s poems—this one doubling as her final goodbye. I fold it back up and shove it into my pocket again, determined not to allow the same fate to take me. The shadow illness will not overtake me.

Inside the park, I’m still shaking. Everything looks so different from how I remembered it. Maybe my perception has been skewed from years of fearing this place, I don’t know. I’ve made a promise to myself, however, that I will face this. I’m not going to run and hide. My shaking is beginning to subside, finally. It takes much more courage for me to walk up to the man selling the tickets to the Comet Coaster than it probably should, but at least I do it. I walk up the long pathway, until I reach the end of the line.

In some ways, I’m growing somewhat impatient. However, I still can’t get past the fact that this still terrifies me. Until I am tightly buckled into the ride, I know I’ll still feel a desire to run away. Even then, the feeling probably won’t go away. I will not run. I will not hide. I will face this.

The line gradually gets shorter, until it’s finally my turn to get on the ride. I clamber into the very front car, ready to feel something, whether it be utter fear or exhilaration. The cars begin to pull out of the station, rattling against the wooden tracks, slowing gaining speed…

And you know what? I loved it.

I feel like I am almost home; the illness’s grip is still strong, but the confidence to face dad has manifested itself as a slowly expanding light in the darkness.

Short Story // Calm in the Storm (2013)

By M. Wobrak Originally published at Expressions of Grace (2013)

❋ ꧁✺꧂ ❋

It had been ten years to the day since the Eliots left and the worst storm their small town had seen in the latter half of the twentieth century had the door of their home swinging on its hinges.

The front door slammed shut when a pair of teenagers in dripping wet clothing stumbled in from the rain, sending vibrations through the thin walls. A shadow box fell from its perch in the dusty parlor with a heavy sound. Below, the ground was littered with flowers and headless, limbless statuettes half-buried beneath a small mound of dirt, giving it the appearance of a bloodless battlefield. The house itself was on the way to looking like one, as well. Outside, tendrils of ivy had already begun their skyward dance along the brick-and-mortar walls and curled into the shattered window panes.

But despite the emptiness of the home, a long shadow was cast on the peeling wallpaper of the parlor. A flash of lightning illuminated the figure of the girl as she knelt beside the fallen soldiers, setting her palms into the dirt. She had organized the floral shadow box with glass statues and stones to add a calming beauty to the derelict room.

The boy leaned on a door frame. “I know that it’s terrible out there, but why did we come here rather than your house? We passed it coming in.”

Without turning, she said, “I spend a lot of time here. I put this shadow box in. No one’s lived here in awhile, so I didn’t think they would mind. It’s kind of far back in the woods, it’s existence is mostly ignored.”

“But why do you come here?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I got curious when I was younger, always seeing this empty home here from my bedroom window. It’s beautiful, absolutely beautiful from the outside. But it’s a morbid kind of beauty.

It’s got a story and I can’t help but guess how it goes.”

He was silent as he crouched down to pick up one of the flowers. With it in hand he settled on the floor beside the fireplace. She stood up, shaking the sleepy feeling from her legs after having knelt for so long. From behind a black walnut rocking chair she pulled a knapsack.

“What’s that for?”

“I keep it here in case I need something when I visit.”

“What could you possibly need that you couldn’t go home for?”

“I mean, I suppose I could go home. I just don’t always want to when I’m here.” Digging her hand into the knapsack, she set out in front of him a compass, a flashlight, a wool blanket, and several books. “I told you I spend a lot of time here. Here, you can put the blanket around your shoulders since we don’t have a towel to dry you off.” She grinned, handing it to him.

“Okay, but what about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” He saw her body shiver in what little light there was.

“No, you should come over here. We can share.”

“Okay.”

She joined him in sitting beside the unlit fireplace.

“It’s beautiful here. Strange, because no one has lived here for so long. But you can still see that they had a nice life.”

“Can you?”

“Well, it’s surprisingly neat, as far as abandoned buildings go. It is dirty, I suppose, but I expected it to look like hell in here.”

“I just wonder if they had such a nice life why they would just pack up and move though. I mean, it looks beautiful because they left their entire lives behind.”

She reached over toward a battery-operated record player that sat on the carpet near the fireplace. From behind it she pulled a vinyl record and placed it gingerly on the machine. The achingly melancholy second movement of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony began to play as she switched the record player on. They both sat, deeply entwined in the music for a long moment as the orchestra danced with the sounds of nature above, wrapped up in the warmth of the music and their own closeness.

The music ended, and still they sat in silence, save for the occasional crack of thunder that served as their reminder of the storm raging outside.

“The batteries were dead in it when I got here the first time, so I made sure to bring more with me. The records aren’t mine though. They were left here.”

“That was lovely. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so beautiful.”

“I know.”

“Why would they leave their records here?”

“Why would they leave any of this here? Something had to have happened to cause this.”

She felt his arm brush against hers.

After a moment, he said, out of the blue, “I bet they were abducted by aliens!”

She laughed. “Really? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“Well, you know, sci-fi nerd over here. That’d be the interesting thing. But no. They didn’t die, did they?”

“I don’t think so. I would think that if they did someone would’ve done something with the house by now, like a family member or someone. Maybe it had something to do with a bad relationship. They could have fought a lot.”

“Yeah, but that wouldn’t quite make sense. Why would they both move out if that was the case?”

She mulled it over for a moment. “This is true.”

“Maybe they were involved in some sort of organized crime and they had to leave to get the cops off their trail.”

She laughed again. “You’ve been watching too much television. It seems unlikely, but honestly, who knows? I mean, I guess we’ll never really know exactly why they left. We could search every miniscule space in this house for a clue and unless we find something that explicitly states why, we’ll never really know for sure. It’s really strange, how no one seems to know anything about them. I’ve asked around, and all anyone seems to know is that they left in the early sixties without a word and that they kept to themselves.”

They sat in silence again, listening to the rain beating hard against the shingles. The shattered windows did not shield them very well from the rushing winds and rain, so it wasn’t long before the girl was shivering even underneath the blanket. The boy noticed, and tried rubbing his palm on her arm to warm her. She smiled.

“So we can’t know why they left years ago. But can I know why you come here now?”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear that story.”

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because it’s nowhere near as interesting as any reason we could come up with for the Eliots’ disappearance. We should talk about that more. I like hearing your ideas.”

“Thank you, but I’d really prefer to hear your story! Like you said, that’s all fiction. I’d like to hear something more realistic for a change.”

“Okay… if you’re sure.” She paused, unsure of how to proceed. She gathered her thoughts. “Even though we don’t know the Eliots’ story for sure, we know that there is something that happened at some point that would make them leave. Something that made this house hell. But to me, this house has always been something beautiful, or I suppose I tried to make it into something beautiful. I used to just come to explore at first, to have the adventures I longed for. Recently though it’s been my sanctuary from home, from long days of my mom’s breakdowns. They don’t come so often anymore, but when they do she goes into the empty room with the blue wallpaper and wooden crib and touches the stuffed animals and cries. I can’t bear to see her like that. It makes my heart hurt knowing I can’t do anything. I can’t help her and I can’t watch her cry. But I suppose that’s that.”

The boy was quiet. Carefully, he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. But why would you say that your story wasn’t interesting? I think it’s beautiful that you can find your sanctuary in a place like this.”

“Well, thank you. I’m not really looking for sympathy or anything by the way. I just thought it’s only fair if you knew.”

“I understand. Thank you for inviting me into your sanctuary.”

“Yeah,” she said, parting her lips as if to say something further, then closed them again.

Silence hung for a long moment.

“I wish we could light a fire,” the boy said.

“Why, are you still too cold? I can go look around; there might be a blanket in another room or closet somewhere that you could use.”

He laughed. “No, it’s not that. I would just very much like to see your face in a warmer light than the occasional flash of lightning allows.”

She felt his palms turn hot on her skin. After a moment, he continued. “Speaking of which, it seems to be slowing down out there. Perhaps we can make a run for it now? It seems like this is probably just like the eye of the storm or something. There’s supposed to be another on its way a little later.” “Okay,” she said, grinning. “I’d like that. We can go to my house and maybe finish our walk later after the storm is over. I can make us some hot apple cider back home, come on.” She lifted herself from the ground, grabbing his hand and pulling him up with her.

“That sounds like a great idea.”

They shared a smile for a moment before she broke eye contact and bent down to put everything back in her knapsack, returning it to its home behind the rocking chair. Straightening herself, she took his hand, smiled widely, and led him through the door to the covered porch.

“On three?” she asked.

“Let’s do it.”

“Okay, but let’s say it together. One…”

“Two…”

“Three!” they shouted together, and together they dashed through the rain across the wooded distance that separated them from her home. When they got there, she didn’t feel afraid of what she would find behind the door. Everything felt warm in spite of the cold rain dripping down her neck and face.