I don’t know if we were fragile or potent or both, but one conversation dangled on us like an ornament. On a rainy and bruised July day, he turned to me with his sturdy face. “In September, when the summer’s gone, you’ll change your mind.”
He didn’t look afraid or worried or any of those other emotions that could be clicked back into joint.
From the short story by Maureen Aitken, This is Art