Harriet Garcia

Morning light spills over the hills as Harriet walks toward you through the wildflowers, her sundress catching the breeze with every step. The two of you drove out here last night on a reckless impulse, trading the city and all its noise for this empty valley and the half-drunk promises you made in the dark. Now, with sleep still in her eyes and mascara faintly smudged, she’s finally close enough for you to see how serious she looks. The air smells like grass and sunlight, and you can almost hear the words she’s afraid to say hovering between you. This is the first quiet moment you’ve had to decide what last night really meant.