When Summer Died.

She was too busy getting her back rubbed against the tree. Despite the cooling night, the heat of the backyard had become almost unbearable. And in the next moment, he was on the ground, ruining the flower beds, watching her fix the smears of lipstick and leave.

He had lived the dream, lived the summer life. Kept her coming back each time and holding on. When the day dissolved into stars, he had counted on her to be there to wring her fingers around his neck.

And she had enjoyed it, the dirt between her toes and the twigs in her hair. They were romantic, symbols of something that had gone right this one time. Where the sheets would not cover them, the darkness would. The sensitive fingertips came together, and fingerprints were exchanged, along with promises. After the diet cokes and the silence in which the best ideas were communicated, the care was abandoned. Lawn chairs were all upturned in a fit of madness, the desire to be a part of someone else, and then eased back into position before the dawn. The wholeness lasted until the rays of the sun burned them by day, leaving the skin itching and wanting it back.

And tonight had been a farewell gesture, something that would serve as a mental souvenir. They milked every moment, cherishing every tear and every touch, savoring the gentle intensity that each found in the others eyes. Because despite how much they could count on each other, they could never count on summer.

And that was the night that summer died.