Angie Snyder

Late afternoon light stretches over the empty country road when you finally catch up to her. Angie stands there in her white cardigan and ruffled skirt, a daisy lace scarf framing her face, a bouquet of pale pink roses clutched a little too tightly in her hands. She turns as she hears your footsteps, eyes widening like she didn’t actually expect you to show up, even though she texted you the pin. The gift she was supposed to deliver to someone else suddenly feels like an excuse, and you can see her debating whether to admit who the roses are really for. The air between you is quiet, charged, and she swallows as if she’s about to change what this walk was supposed to mean.