I take a long walk at dusk across a portion of the six hundred and fifty two acres. I study the purple-red sun as it falls into the dark-blue horizon, which reminds of Renaldo Livingston and his artwork. A hawk circles overhead, and somewhere in a lonely tree is a hooting owl. I consume other sounds of the evening, which entail a distant coyote, a whistling prairie because of the light wind, and the drawn out echo of thunder splayed over a faraway town, closing in on Hiding.
Eventually, I remove my shirt and let it hang in a fist. The wind is soft and smooth against my bare skin. It feels like Corey’s fingers run up and down my chest, brush n*****s, and graze my navel. I hear him in my mind: Come here, I want to kiss you. The weekender strikes again. Love me. It’s not asking for much.
Ev
