The skies bloomed green flame as he sat on the lip of the bridge. This year, he smiled inside, everything will be different. The green shower of sparks turned red and then gold across his corneas as a curl of lavender perfume cut with menthol cigarettes wound it’s way through his head. For one second, it was like she was really next to him and not in some shelter in Kansas City. A small ocean welled up in the creases of his eyes. He swiped his face with a work glove–leaving a smudge of earthen war paint–and then cracked another beer. I’m coming home, Lily, he thought, taking a long swig of his tall boy. This time I’m really coming home.


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