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  • Marie Smysor Watson

Second Summer

It was all fine until the second summer came. If not fine, then at least okay with newness. That first summer they bumped into each other like colts unsure and unsteady in their just-born phase but still excited, still green with the unknowing.


Sorry I’m always in your way, she laughed.


Sorry for taking up so much space, he grinned.


Let me know when you’re ready for lunch, she called.


Let me know when you’re ready to make lunch, he responded.


We’re so lucky, she mused.


We’re so lucky, he agreed.


By the second summer though they had wilted, grown weary of each other’s noise and smell, their loose limbs and looser tongues.


I can hear you breathing, she snapped.


I can hear you thinking, he fussed.


Stop blinking your eyes so fast, she fumed.

Stop licking your teeth so smugly, he muttered.


Pick up your shit, she fussed.

Pick up your pace, he retorted.


And then suddenly, in a parting as swift and violent as the Red Sea, a path was formed for them to venture back into the Promised Land. They left their fortress, venturing out for the first time into a new world, blinking at its brightness, its promise, but when they returned, they quickly shed their outer shells, draping them over every piece of available furniture until they were whole again, naked and new.


I hate people, she sighed.


I hate the whole world, he complained.


I never want to see another face again, she sighed.


I never want to see the sun again, he groused.


Let’s stay in tomorrow, she cooed.


Let’s stay in forever, he commanded.












Yep, it mostly DO be like that!



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