She noticed the skull laying on the sand. Some displaced animal had been brutally torn apart by twin bullets, its cerebral cortex desiring escape in all directions, though still half trapped under bloody flesh and fur. With Beethoven flowing in circles against her eardrums and bruises covering her exposed arms, the sun harshly continued to cook her skin. She stared out into the water, contemplating a sea-burial and extending her long legs over the nearby rock. With soothing linen hiding torn muscles and time floating into the sky, she became an expert witness of the life and death surrounding her.
We rode our bikes under the umbrella trees until our legs begged beautifully to rest. My hair blew out behind me and wrestled with the dry air as I watched his hat float away and roll lazily along the dusty trail. We rested our dirty wheels against the aging bark, tangled our fingers together in an awkwardly comfortable embrace and began to walk toward the shed. It smelled like photosynthesis and age as he bent over to pluck three daisies from the long grass and slowly braided them through my tangled hair, inexperience shooting out of his hands. It tickled and everything was okay.
