Arkansas! she said. Pity. He seemed so nice.
And with that, she turned her attention elsewhere,
toward people who were not leaving for Arkansas.
Nearby, a woman shot into the sun, shading the lens
with her hand. Try as she might, she was unable to
capture the day’s pervasive sense of intimacy suffused
with estrangement. High clouds spread thin fingers
across the sky, while a yellowjacket sipped, halfheartedly,
an abandoned glass of rose. It was not to his taste.
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
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