Wrangled

She said all her parents listened to was country music. But it wasn’t that bad. Not really.

It was sometime in early November, and they sat close together on the front porch’s swing. Each wearing a too-big curling sweater and holding a can of pop. He asked if it made her feel like a cowboy, the music he meant, and she thought about it a second and agreed.

Later that night, she laid awake in bed, heavy blankets tucked in around her feet, unsure of what she felt, other than the wind from the open window he’d just left from.

Written while listening to:

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