I took the paper bag from her as she snuck into the restroom. The sky was blushing, dotty clouds spread evenly like frosting on a big, pale blue cake. Clouds, scattered across the sky like strips of butter cut across warm toast, gapped like a scratched record. They look so far–impossibly so. A truly beautiful sight–yet I cannot accept their veracity in good faith without at least first flirting with the edge of the sky, to see if there is some hint of her infidelity. The sky looks too pretty, like a face so smooth and clear you could stare at your warped reflection like a fun-house mirror, une visage sans imperfection–texture which betrays truth–but the sky is too far away. Painted on, a giant dome high above those hills: a million miles away, looking down on me, a giant duvet–smothering not comforting; I’m straining to see the edges. A light breeze breathes onto my cheeks, ruffling my hair, but I’m not here.

I stand there, looking for cracks in the sky.

She comes out of the restroom, hands not fully dry (they brush quickly, softly against mine), and I hand her the bag, unwavering gaze obsessed with the heavens. She briefly looks along my sight before turning to face me. In the corner of my eye, I see a small smile dress her pretty face.

“Shall we?”