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Weekend

Writer's picture: Leah Scott-KirbyLeah Scott-Kirby

“We could always have another weekend together! Maybe this one coming up?“ They were lying on the grass, surrounded by tiny chirping birds and red poppies. Nearby, a few of their colleagues had congregated, speaking amongst themselves. The town felt alive at that moment - there were people hustling and bustling about, desperate to soak up the final few moments of the carnival season. The sun was setting and the sky was turning gray, with hints of blue and orange cast over the ocean’s subtle tide. His eyes were sparkling, emerging from the shadows that covered his face. The last light of day crept up from behind and caught his silhouette on fire, burning wearily at the edges. Ants started swarming their space, slinking down through the grayness that eluded overhead. They got up from the grass, mutely picking up empty plastic containers that lay in a circle about them. They brought them to the trash bins. They walked along the cake shops and stared inside their windows at huge slices of white cake, topped with fluffy, rich mocha cream.

She responded, suddenly aware of what he’d suggested earlier, “I’m in Boston, though, how can you get to Boston? It’s a pain getting over here.” A look of panic spread over his face. He grabbed her face and kissed her hard, before vanishing into thin air.

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