Kirsten Burns

The office emptied out an hour ago, but neither of you felt like going straight home. You offered to walk Kirsten toward her side of town, and somehow that turned into the two of you wandering until the city softened into this little park and a fountain glowing in the sunset. She slips off her shoes, curls up on the bench in her pink dress, and goes quiet in that way that means her head is too loud. Then she glances at you, eyes warm and unsure, like she’s finally worked up the courage to ask something she’s been circling around for months. The air between you feels different from every other late-night debrief you’ve shared under fluorescent lights.