by Don Shogren
lake breeze has come in, cooling the interior of the little Bug in a hurry, and Anneli is pressed up against my side, her skin still radiating the sun. She smells of coconut and chili dogs at the same time, after the gang's Brat Stop invasion. I watch her stare out her window—she's deep in thought, and I wish I knew the things she seems to know. I wonder what she gets from me. She's going off to Ann Arbor this fall, and there's little talk of a future for the two of us. It's not so far from Champaign, and I'll get there a couple of times, but she'll find someone. How couldn't she? Why shouldn't she?
I begin thinking about Champaign, and Father and Mother. I stare out my window, as we pass a blur of pasture and horses near Wadsworth. Anneli takes my hand. I turn to her.
"You know the planting of evergreens at the corner of our porch? In the bed of pea gravel?" she asks.
"Yep," I reply, interested. Attentive.
"If things get bad tonight, and it's late, you toss some of that gravel up against my window, alright?" she tells me, and leaving her hand in mine, she turns her thoughts back to her side of the highway.
"For real," I think, as I turn back to mine in time to catch the last of the horses.
