Early summer. The reservoir would have stopped me in my tracks, were I not on a highway overpass. Lush, mossy, damp, sweet – I’ve never seen it that way before. Does the twenty-first summer cast fresh light?
Down into town tomorrow, a nice house, a good dog, a phone call awarding me a job. You won’t believe this is what I want, but it is. The children will be trilingual, or I won’t have them; you’ll commute to work, or I won’t have you.
I’m done compromising my dreams in order for a man to realize his.
