the world shrinks, darling.

(and the mind reels when you’re near)
let’s for a few hours pretend they’re not some of the last.

she put on a bathing suit and stretched on a faded beach towel while he ran a few miles through the town. the grass was patchy, nearly non-existent. it was the pale green of struggle. the sun started a slow drop, hitting them full and gold. when he passed, she pretended to read. at page sixty, a shadow smothered the print. she glanced up. reaching delicately for her wrist, he tugged her up. she wrinkled her nose. “sweaty,” she said. he tasted like salt.

they didn’t have cereal or milk or bread. “i wish we could make toast,” she said.
“toast!” he laughed and pinched her left dimple.
she made scrambled eggs instead, in a too-small pan. she was wearing billowy, blue-checked boxers. his pajamas were striped. and when the eggs were ready, they ate in silence, with full glasses of orange juice and coffee in front of them. she smiled at the tv, and at him, and curled into a ball, her stomach tight with sadness. it was ten a.m. “i liked your scrambled eggs,” he told her, when he had finished. he rubbed her ankle.

they opened the door, and the rain started. maybe it had waited all morning, behind tight grey clouds. they ran, trying not to stumble over the uneven brick path. she shoved books in her car, tossed him a final volume of poetry. the rain came harder. both of them, breathing faster. she shoved her last suitcase in an already-crammed car and slammed the door. he took her hand and pulled her under the tin carport. the rain roared then, slapping the driveway and the roof above them. he took her face and kissed her—she felt all the coming absence in the kiss.