She was quiet, framed by flattened grass, looking away, and buttoning into her shirt beside him. He didn’t want to be there anymore: on that hillside, in that grass, with her.

Walking back into town, Slush Puppies seemed like a good idea.

The door having dinged upon his entrance, he gave an obligatory nod to the husky, tattered checkout maiden before heading to the corner of the Cumby’s to blend squirts of flavored dye into paper cups beneath a glowing snow-capped spaniel. Icing the cups, lidding them, he made his way to the counter, fumbling to unsheathe a straw.

“Anything else?”

“Nah.”

“Buck-ninety-five then.”

Maneuvering his eyes reluctantly past cigarette-cartons, scratch-tickets, and plastic-wrapped magazines, he unfolded two crumbling bills into the hand of the husk, abandoning the change.

She was outside, curbed, toes pigeoned, skirt clenched between her knees, eyeing a constellation of discarded cigarette butts that stretched out in front of her. Unspeaking he offered it to her, and unspeaking, with barely outstretched limb, she received it.