I think she sings. I think that’s how she does it. We’ve never heard it, but there’s a feeling you can almost hear as the sun comes, a buzz maybe, a current. She might be singing, that might be her.

I think she knows him, I think they’ve had lunch a time or two, or she might stop by his place from time to time. Like Bridge friends, but maybe deeper, because he wasn’t there when it all went down, so it might be a guilt thing. Maybe if he had pushed ahead, been there to see, maybe they would’ve stopped. Because it would be a different story if it didn’t storm. I don’t know if they’d have done it on a sunny Friday afternoon.

I think that’s it, I think he owes her one. I think he has to shine because he didn’t once when it mattered, and maybe she asked, begged him, screamed, but maybe he couldn’t, because it is what it is. So maybe he owes her one, or a thousand ones, and I think he might feel terrible, because it’s been so long but there she stands.


I think she doesn’t sing, now that I think of it. I think she cries. I think the buzz is the tear he comes to dry.