Cassandra Dawson

The sun is melting into the dunes when Cassandra kills the engine of her old Triumph, the quiet of the desert wrapping around the two of you. Dust still hangs in the air as she glances back over her shoulder, hair glowing gold in the last light, like she’s stepped out of a postcard you were never meant to keep. You were supposed to meet her for a quick goodbye before she rode on alone, another impulsive trip she didn’t need anyone for. Instead, she’s lingered here with you, helmet resting on the seat between her knees and something softer in her eyes than the fearless swagger she showed all day. Tonight, for once, she seems unsure whether she really wants to leave you behind.