Twenty Six

and his pants would never again see the light of day.

Sandra took his hand in hers, the softness of her skin not escaping his notice, and looked into his eyes. “I’ve seen stupid before, but that was Stupid with a capital S.”

Peter would have argued the point, but he knew she was right. As they sat next to each other on the stonewall fence, he scratched an abstract pattern in the dirt with the toe of his right foot. He would tell her he loved her, but not right then. There were too many things hanging over them, and most of them were his fault; he would wait until she could focus her attention on him instead of his mess.

Peter looked into the looming sycamore tree across the street and said with painfully clear regret, “I’m gonna miss those pants.”