After she came back, bringing a vase for me from Prague, the uptown apartment felt familiar. We planned simple days and I made her laugh as much as I could, a sound the lonely walls had waited months for. The lilacs on the best corner of the block touched us as we took our walks, their blooms too plump, persuasive. That night, we ran fast with an open paper bag, while the moon marked their last week, the flowers already dropping, drooping to fade. While I arranged them she cried in the next room, despite the sweet smell, despite everything.
Amy Bohlman is a Minnesota-based writer in love with the short form. Find Amy at www.ashortgirl.com or on Instagram @ashortgirlwrites.