It’s a quarter to one in the morning. Cricket songs, and the ever-present drone of Thruway traffic, pass through our open bedroom windows. We’ll be on our way to Smuggler’s Notch in a few more hours.
I should be asleep. My fingers caressed and massaged Mira’s back earlier in the evening. The intimacy that followed…I should have slept through the night afterward.
But I haven’t.
“What if?” arises again, and again. Knotted energy surrounds thoughts of work. My old failures become new ones, again and again.
Only I’m not at work. I’m in my bed at home. Listening to crickets and traffic.
To see leaves falling
more by FRANK J. TASSONE
photograph by Adam Excell