That week up at the cabin we smoked until our fingers were yellow and drank until our insides ached.

Outside it snowed or it didn’t. The sun shone, or not. We had the curtains closed tight. We didn’t bother looking out the windows, knew there was nothing we could learn out there.

We wanted escape. Or to retreat.

We had it figured out one night, or morning, or afternoon. Had set the exact words in the right order to fully, finally, explain what it was we felt.

But woke up to a log smouldering in the stove, unable to remember.

Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.


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