At the prairie: Female, Brunette.

There used to be a bench here, I swear. I scan the ground for indentations where it once stood, look around for any sign of where someone may have moved it. You do not believe me, but it’s true: I sat in it last weekend and watched a hot air balloon drift over Seymour until it was obscured by the skeletons of trees. If the bench were still here, maybe we could sit on it, but I’m not sure that is something I would want, I am not sure I would give up this scene: us, lying on the grass, watching the sky as it rusts, feeling those first few raindrops and cursing under our breath, but neither one of us making the move to leave. Neither of us is sure how we ended up here, couldn’t remember where we going in the first place. Walked through a sea of fog and came out here, where once there was a bench. I noticed you long before we ever talked, saw the way you danced, heard your laugh, inescapable. When we met, I was surprised at your shyness. Yes, there are nights where you clutch a forty and break into apartments, where you and I wander looking for a new way to make the world spin. But there are also other nights, the ones you spend building Roman houses, nights when you speak little. Those nights, I ask what you will plant in the peristylium. I place my hand on your leg and ask you to describe the placement and shape of the columns in the atrium. I ask if I can visit one day, when you have finished construction, and you turn back to your blueprints and tell me I will have to enter through the posticum, so no one watching will be able to see my arrival. Architect, open up. Let the light in. Tonight there are no houses, there is no bench. There is just the prairie, its tall grass rustling with the latest rumors, the footprints of flamingos still visible in the dirt. We look out at the flatness of this state, those cornfields crosshatched by trains, and you tell me of the snow-covered mountains you glide down at home, while I trace my name on your arm like I’m signing a cast, like I’m carving into stone.