She rides 500 miles high, and doesn't reach the sky until the scream whips by, and it's gone. She's at the threshold, now, where arms reach out to bring her in, draw her close. Warm and sweet breath, the feeling of being.

One moment of peace.

Secret intimacy meant for nights like these, when no one notices; no one notices her screams from the rooftops ten cities away, the things she throws from her throat to the sleepy race-car drivers crashing into twilight. Boston doesn't hear. Only one hears, the only one who can give her the answer she needs.

It is cold. She is shivering, but not from the cold. There is something else beyond the chill, in the grass beneath her feet, in the glittering lights that whiz by, blurs and blurs of clotted dreams: a green disappointment, indigo defeat.

He's there, beside her.

Close and pressing, but he could disappear in a moment. She closes her eyes and breathes in deep, tingling fingertips.

Friday nights, and the father calls her home.


A prompt on querencia.