Clouds try their best to hinder the sun’s work, but in the end they are as ephemeral as us all. They’ve always driven me to contemplation.

I lean back on the wooden bench. The cool air nips at my skin, numbing my extremities. All except for my left hand. She holds it tenderly, a gentle smile on her lips, keeping the chill at bay.

Today the clouds’ gentle blobby selves drift lazily, high in the sky, peppered across a vast blue backdrop. Yet under analysis clouds produce surprises. From a distance they look calm and serene. But they constantly withstand wind speeds exceeding a hundred kilometers an hour. They float in the air, despite a single cloud weighing half a million kilograms. A thunderstorm holds a billion volts of electric potential.

So much power and the ones above me will be gone in hours. Truly not much else in nature can compete with them on power versus longevity.

I suppose if I were my younger self I’d attribute animals to their nebulous forms.

That one’s obviously a giraffe. A horse? Don’t be absurd. Just look at its long neck. No horse has a neck that long.

My tie’s too tight around my neck. Maybe I’m just not used to wearing one. At least I remembered a clip so it wouldn’t whip around in this autumn breeze like the numerous leaves tumbling across the fields around me. When was the last time I actually wore a tie?

It’s her big day. She wears a dress I’ve never seen before. She looks beautiful, especially when she stumbles over her words.

Someone starts speaking but their words are lost on me. I suppose I should listen, but my shoe is scuffed. First the tie and now the shoe. Par for the course. I can’t do anything about the scuff now. That moment has passed, already a forgotten blip in history. When did it happen?

She walks beside me, fingers interlaced with mine. Waffles beat pancakes. On that we agree. I constantly steal glances at her. No one could have seen that rock on the path. Anyone claiming otherwise is a liar.

A cloudy rooster forms, comb, wattle, and all.

Island vacation, I insisted. I’ll plan it, I said. Are island chickens different from normal chickens, or has media lied to me all my life? Before the sun even rises the roosters call. Not even fifteen minutes later they repeat their doodle-doos. On and on, for the entire day, over and over until the sun dipped far under the horizon. Rest is impossible. She insists it isn’t bad. Lies.

A long, sinuous cat stretches for miles.

The text seems more unbelievable every time I read it. The furry ball of truth hides under her bed when I arrive. It only takes some food to build love. They share the trait.

A singular boot stomps away the blue.

We’re sharing a hotel with her friends. My first convention but they are seasoned experts. I don heavy winter boots as part of my cosplay. One of her friends asks if I always do that. She confirms with a smile, leaving me not even knowing what I’ve done.

A bike rolls by.

We’re walking together on the sidewalk while I push my bike. I still can’t believe she decided to walk such a distance to the tea shop for our date. When we finally get to her car we share a hug. She fits perfectly in my arms.

A chaotic ribbon flutters in a wispy curl.

She’s dancing on stage. All the others fade away in her presence. When it’s over I cheer obnoxiously loudly, not caring who I annoy.

Or maybe it’s a spring.

I bound across the wood chips to my unexpected destination. She follows at a sedate pace. A sproinger-doinger! The spring bends precipitously under my weight, nearly causing me to faceplant. I cling to the seat and rock backwards to the ground. Passersby must think I’m touched in the head from all the cocked eyebrows I spy while I rock back-and-forth cackling like a maniac. But I’m having fun and she’s content to suffer through my eccentricities. She frees me to be who I am.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

I can’t tell if these are the same clouds as before. The skies have changed. They make war against the sun. Their loss, inevitable. But honor lies in trying. When was my triumph against the odds?

The time is right. None prowl these halls but me. A simple knock and she answers. My courage unleashes a question that has burned in my belly for weeks. Her answer fills me with elation.

I’ve lost the pattern. My sight just isn’t what it used to be. The skies have devolved into a blurry tempest. There’s something on my glasses. I take them off to wipe the excess moisture away only to reveal a deep scar along one lens. How did that get there?

A panorama of seaside town fills the valley below the cliffs where we stand. She’s none-the-wiser until she turns to me. Her face instantly crinkles up into a rictus to ruin the shot while she bats at the camera in my hand.

This isn’t what I want to see.

The cauldron before us bubbles, kicking up salty, spicy scents. The arrangement is a novelty to me, built directly into the table itself. She tosses in a plate of flash-frozen meats and another with fresh mushrooms. So many mushrooms. It turns out delicious.

Where is it?

The hypnic jerks have started. It’s only a matter of time. I deploy my secret weapon: lower back massage. Her head slumps down, resting its full weight upon my shoulder. I am become pillow, bringer of sleeps.

I should have one.

The empty backstreets of this foreign city start to worry me. The door we arrive at only has a knocker. It opens for us and I never doubt her restaurant choice from that day onward.

Just one.

I vomit my emotions while assuming the fetal position. She soothes my worries away with her gentle embrace. Maybe I could be little spoon more often.

It’s all I ask.

I raised my voice to her. Over a goddamn turkey of all things. As soon as the words left my mouth I regretted them. The holidays stress me and I dread the upcoming meeting with parents. It’s a poor excuse. Shame strangles me.

I know I should have said it more.

The DVD skips again. The library copy of this movie is scratched like some toddler went to town on it with a paperclip. She sits as far as possible from me on the opposite end of the couch. Like the indirect coward I am, I ask for the third time whether she’s comfortable while secretly desiring to put my arm around her shoulder and lean into one another. She later tells me she was completely oblivious.

Please.

The machines are everywhere here, but this is the first one to really catch her eye. I know her frugality is warring with her desire. My coins are inserted before she can protest. Inside the capsule she finds a little kitty cat plush. She unleashes a conspiratorial giggle when she first squeezes it.

I know it’s in there.

Someone new joins us for lunch. I barely hear her quiet voice over the packed cafeteria’s din. I follow the movement of her lips, hoping to read them and learn more about her.

Just show me.

The restaurant is empty save for us. Seven courses, each delicious. But the dessert. Oh, the dessert. I don’t even know what it is or how they made it, but it tastes like perfection on a plate. Across from me she wiggles in her seat with every bite.

Don’t lose it.

One hand squeezes the wooden box in my jacket pocket. A riot of butterflies form a mosh pit in my stomach. I direct her to a cliff overlooking a picturesque forested vista at the midpoint of our wilderness hike. I know she doesn’t want this moment to be public and I think this is as secluded as I can make it. When I look up at her from the ground I savor her surprise.

I’m begging.

The clouds are an overcast blanket now. The melancholy sheet smothers the world. No more shapes exist to remind me.

But I’ve seen this sky before.

New Years Eve in Madrid. The final day of our first vacation together. The day I knew for certain.

Temporary vendors pack the crowded square next to the city center. Their little wooden stalls stick out like brightly-colored sore thumbs amongst all the dark stone. It’s still early in the afternoon, but the overcast clouds cast a shady gloom. It’s cold enough to see our breath in the air. But we’re both bundled up in coats and scarves and our hands keep one another warm.

Kitschy glasses commemorating the year that haven’t looked good since we’ve left the aughts are the most popular item. We pass them by, not even tempted. But when I see the hats I know I must have them. Chicken hats. They are literally shaped like chickens – tail, legs, necks, beaks, wattles, wings, and all. I throw Euros at the vendor until two are mine.

She indulges my whims and wears one matching my own. Mine is a garishly bright red that fails to match the burgundy of my coat and scarf. Hers is an impressively eye-searing orange that could probably double as a piece of high-vis clothing at a construction site.

I drag her off to another vendor who has dumb-looking wooden cut-outs to put our heads for a picture. I know she avoids cameras like a plague and hates having her photograph taken, but I need to keep this moment.

People give us strange looks, probably questioning our sanity. Maybe it’s just my manic grin at wearing something so absurd. I’m just so happy to be with someone with whom I share so much compatibility. I know she’s the one for me.

“Say it, you idiot,” I chastise my past self. “Say the words.”

Yet I am forced to watch, helpless. I don’t remember saying it. The memory fades while we’re on the subway back to our hotel, leaning into one another. It leaves behind a crushing hollowness in my chest.

Is there really nothing left? That’s all she is now? Just one more. I deserve that much, right? I know it happened. Just remember it.

Please.

I scrunch my eyes shut. I squeeze her hand.

Please.

A hand clamps onto my shoulder. “Are you ready?” they ask.