I couldn't get the tent up and she made me nervous, watching me, hands on hips. She tried to help and I snapped at her and then pinched my hand in a connecting pole, swore. We'd forgotten the coffee. We'd forgotten the bread. All of this with rain pouring down, both of us drenched and shouting.

Once the tent was up, crooked, the best thing would have been to scuttle inside laughing, strip off our wet clothes, warm each other. We would have, but neither of us were feeling kind. It was late. We went to bed. She didn't zip her sleeping bag into mine and I didn't care.

In the morning I woke up and she was gone. I could hear her rustling through the packs outside, faking breakfast out of what little we'd remembered to bring. I watched her through the tent flap, lying on my stomach. She was kneeling, in her underwear, squinting against morning. It had rained itself out, not a cloud left over. She was so warm and bright. She turned and grinned and jumped up and ran back to the tent, peeling off her undershirt on the way, leaving it on the ground behind her.

After, my head on her belly. Her drowsy hands on me. I said something that made her laugh and I could feel it rising up through her body into mine. I thought, Oh Amy, we didn't forget anything after all. Probably all I said out loud was Oh, Amy.

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