"Let's just go," she said.

And you did. Without a second thought. Without, for that matter, a first.

It had been that way since last spring, when you two met outside the library. You were coming out, she was dodging a cop. It was love at first convenience for her. She kissed you and that was it.

She moved in the next day.

And now, you both had to leave.

I ran yesterday, on the bike path, at lunch. I am a stumbling, inconsistent runner, but the climate inside the office drove me out into the rain and green leaves. The spring air chilled me.

It hurts to run. A fire starts in your throat and lungs, your skull feels too small. Every false landing sends a shriek into your knees and ankles. Cramps start as cinders in your shoulders and abdomen, and then flare hotter with every inhalation. The rain is cold and green.

I reached the highway bridge, a gorge carved by dynamite and filled with the rush and ebb of exhaust, rubber, glass, stained by graffitti. I stood on the bridge to watch for a moment, then I turned back.

Just after the bridge, in a puddle, I saw a flash of blue. I palmed the empty eggshell and carried it until a suitable shrine revealed itself to me. Near the end of the path, a large fir stood, hollowed by rot after loss of limb. I piled dandelions into the knot-hole and nestled the eggshell into the center. I walked back to work.

When I returned today, the flowers had wilted, but the egg was gone.

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