We were paranoid and hid in the grass, it was dark out. The grass was shorn, recently mowed and sticky but we rolled over each time a car passed, headlights sweeping our backs. You had eaten mushrooms and wanted to curl in the curve of my neck, I pushed you away so we laid close enough to touch but not. I wouldn't eat the shrooms so you dared me to jump the fence into the lake, but another car came and we just rolled over again, turtles under the white city moon. A field cricket got lost in the folds of my shirt when I asked you about your apartment, you mumbled that it was hers now and didn't say where you'd be sleeping. I didn't ask. I expected fewer headlights as the sky got higher, but they came in streams and our clothes just grew damp in the dew.
Angela Horner is a Baltimore writer. She co-hosts the monthly open mic Moaning Pipe Cabaret.