Remember that time we slept on the beach in the middle of June? The bottles of beer made our hands numb and the fire was out long before the sun rose. I lay between the two of you, feeling drowsy enough for this situation to be endearing rather than uncomfortable.
“Sometimes I feel better when I know I can just reach out and hold the moon in the palm of my hand.”
The three of us lay there on the sand, shivering in the dark, holding out our stretched palms. We were all vying for that single, fat, buttery moon. Our seventeen-year-old arms felt much too short.
Published in Prowling Issue One, March 2013.