Always is a club word, like nothing.
They avoided those.
June learned to ride a bike in a cemetery park because the paths were wide. Patricia watched from a bench. Grant was not there. Claire ran behind the bike with one hand out. James filmed badly. The film is on a phone. No string lights. No hedge. A child, a path, a hand that is allowed to be out because it is there to catch, not to claim.
That hand is the correction.
Grant’s hand was the error.
Claire’s walk was the verdict.
The years were the sentence they chose to serve together instead of apart.
Serve is a harsh word. They did not think of it as prison. They thought of it as a table with a scratch, oranges, tomatoes, diner coffee, a clerk, a plant, a name from a month that had to wait, and a garden they would not rent again.
If the club burned, she would not drive by.
If the club hosted a hundred happy rehearsals, she would not mind.
Those dinners are not hers.
Hers ended when she said save it.
She saved nothing.
She spent the night.