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sand leading down to the water. Caught up in fancy, she thinks that perhaps it just evaporated, frittering away to dust, carried away by the morning wind. She runs down to the edge of the water, taking care not to trip on the honeycomb bits of glass and wood dispersed across the beach. There are no footprints to be seen, no sign of the clothes and boots he left behind. Perhaps the tide washed away all traces earlier that morning. What left to do? Alert the authorities? Search the opposite shore? Her companion is already struggling into his pack, not having said a word. You don't care at all, she thinks. To you, maybe he didn't -- You sleep all right? her companion asks her. Yes. But --  |
We were lucky, huh? Good thing we found this lake. Don't know what it would have been like camping in the middle of the forest. Nothing in his eyes suggests an acknowledgment of the previous night's events, or even an indication that anything unusual had happened. You don't remember --? What? Remember what? Do you know any poems about the heart and spring flowers? she asks him. Warmed by this question -- he was always the literary expert, she begrudges him that -- he laughs. Hundreds. One of the oldest clichés in the book.  |
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