Kether
We head north on the interstate. The radio is on, playing something classical, but neither of us is really listening. He keeps his eyes on the road; I look out the window without paying much attention to what I’m seeing. We don’t talk, nor do we brush hands like we usually do when we’re in the car. I’m afraid I’ll start to weep if I so much as open my mouth.
Or worse, that I’ll make him weep.
Midsummer Eve.
We drove to one of the massive suburban parks that circle the larger metropolitan area to the north like a long emerald necklace. Like any other park, it’s closed to the public after dark, and patrolled, which is why he parked the car in a parking lot about a half a mile away from the park entrance we accessed, and why we’ve been walking in shadows to our destination, a forma
