It's a crackling park. Branches bristle, evergreen needles scritch, mulch grinds underfoot.
The branches wave about the tree's crown as if it's casting a spell.
In everything, she chases love, sincere unflinching love, withheld from her as a child and longed-for decades later.
Shoulders relaxing as I settle at the table with a glass of sparkling wine.
Forehead-slapping moment when the words I've rehearsed come out costumed in a different meaning and tone.
"They don't know how to write," he says of his students. "They don't care. They think they have nothing worth sharing. Maybe they don't!"
Sucking on cough drops as the wind nips my cheeks and throat.