"Seventy degrees," he tells me from the screen. "Sunny and mild, a very nice day..." He smiles as if he loves something that is very near him. I wonder if he can see me in his mind, the way he is etched into my eyelids.
John, beautiful, stupid John. He does not know I love him. He knows that I know he loves me. He pretends to know me, I pretend to keep up with him.
This summer will not be seventy degrees. It will be cold, the coldest summer, frostbitten sunrises and gray light.
It will be cold, because I will run, because I always do.
But it will be summer, because he will follow, because he always does.
YOU ARE READING
Leah and All Accompanying Disasters
RomanceHere are vingettes and conversations from a novel I haven't yet written. Here are Leah, John, and all of their disasters.
