big Wyoming sky, rippling and bulging, mirroring the prairie highway before them, shades of mist and pearl, taupe and graphite, scudding from the west, driven by winds too strong to imagine
laundry-room floor she knows by heart, concrete, cracked and patched, coated with an easy-to-clean industrial paint to hide haphazard repairs and things she does not want to think about
old limestone church, where worshippers gather to offer prayers and gratitude, where she sits next to him, secretly waiting for answers to questions she does not yet know how to ask
handgun, so close to her cheek she can smell its metallic perfume, his arm unsteady as they hurtle up the expressway, wheels slamming potholes, expansion joints, his rage ricocheting off the dashboard, flying out her open window
truck-driver’s face, just visible in the moonlight, when he first sees the demons he awakened, simply by changing lanes without a signal
feral cat, yellow eyes haunting her nights, speaking to her deepest sorrows and regrets, inviting her to the ghost-peopled world of what if and if only, where a blizzard becomes a name becomes a dream
rain-wet pavement on the day she walks home from the hair salon, with just enough time for a glass of rosé before she zips herself into a discount-store wedding dress that’s almost, but not quite, long enough
© 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: PxHere
Masterpiece!
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