They're all in flames except for the destroyers. He hunts for mine, and I for his, across the war-torn grids.
He's assigned an essay on the Battle of Gettysburg, and chooses to write it the length of the Gettysburg Address, 272 words. It reads naturally, without too many adjectives thrown in for padding.
The cold rain has crawled into my socks.
We play to 100 points. As soon as we're both close, he lies on the floor, hands flailing, so that if I win, he can say that he let me.
The harpsichord music is fury and frayed nerves. Forked lightning kept in a crystal vial.
For the sake of inefficiency, they invite us to an in-person orientation. We spend fifteen minutes signing in, finding our seats, and picking up a thin packet of information we could have received via email. Following a ten-minute PowerPoint presentation chock-full of information already contained in the packets, the Q&A session begins. Crickets chirp. We leave.
Cuddling on the couch, because it can't already be time to say good night.