we walk all day. at noon, we pause at a beautiful waterfall and eat lunch on the big, sunwarm stones surrounding it. a couple of hours later, the ground starts to gently bend upwards. i can see a mountain in the horizon - it's covered with deep-green grass and i can see the tiny silhouettes of goats grazing up there. there's a climbing route on one side of the mountain, i think we're maybe going to climb it but anya is the one in charge of the hiking route.
as we walk into a tiny forest at the foot of the mountain, a very welcome shadow lending us some cool, florence walks up to me.
'can you carry my pack?' she says, the tone not indicating a question.
'i have a backpack to carry too, florence,' i reply.
florence sighs. 'oh please, jone. you haven't changed a bit.'
she charges past me, lining up with sid who takes her backpack without doubt. i silently wonder what it's with that girl that makes everybody crazy for her. what made me crazy for her, a year ago, when i was still unaware of what she was capable of. really, i think no one knew anything about her insides. she was more like a trophy than a partner. then she met me, and we were together for eight months, and now i'm starting to wonder if being a trophy wasn't even a punishment but her absolute favorite place on the shelf.
and sid may be the perfect boy to admire her gold shine, without worrying what is written on the plaquette.
YOU ARE READING
the wild week
Short Storyfour friends. one getaway plan. one great forest. seven days.
