Disclaimer: If you recognize anything, it's not mine.

40

On the bus their hands are free again to clasp, her left in his right. Comfortable. That hand feels cold when they part, always, even just to settle in their seats, before it slips again into his.

They don't know where they're going. Just away, she thinks, prays; that somewhere on this road they'll find the peace of being unknown.

Somewhere to wait out the storm.

And then…

Someday.

And until then there's nothing but this man's hand in hers, and his presence beside her, and the country gliding by outside her window.

Nothing but this.

But this is everything.