The desert scorched their lips, broke the heart of their embrace- a pink blister on their foreheads the sun’s reminder on how impossible it will be to hold on to these knowings.
He will be left standing alone in the swirl of shadows and dust, abandoned by the mountains, living only in the patina of dwellings turning to relics.
She will drag the dead deer they hit off the hood of the red mustang, leaving it to wither just beyond the white lines. The blood will stay. So will the dent. In years, the cracked windshield will be a spiderweb.
One day, when this piece of metal overheats, she will rest her feet out the window, and realize that it’s time to raise the hood, and walk away into the dessert, just vanish into the old dust and shadows.
Her grandfather seeing her vacant armless chair empty by the fireplace will teach her son how to handle a rifle. The boy will close his eyes, pull the trigger. The deer, he shot, will be left alone in the dust.
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