Midsummer
St. SebastianHe doesn’t remember precisely how he came to be in a car with Auden and Poe driving down I-70, but he would never dream of complaining about it. The windows are down, the radio is blaring something loud and fun, and Poe’s hair is everywhere—a storm of hair, dark and silky—as she drives and sings and eventually goads Auden into singing too.
His voice is terrible, hers too, and St. Sebastian leans his head against the backseat window and smiles as he listens to them. Outside, stretches of Kansas flash by—green fields, greener pastures, broken by lines of stunted, prairie-hardy trees and shallow creeks with cows crowding the edges. This isn’t home—this isn’t sunlight glinting off glass and waving off asphalt, this isn’t a sidewalk ready to scald bare feet, paletas
