She looked up at him, laughing. “You can come unpack this stuff if you’d like.”
“No, no, you’ve got it.”
“Alright, then. Quit your bitchin’.”
He strode back to the car to get the cooler. Sweat was dripping down his forehead as he approached the picnic table.
She was gone. The table was bare, and a desolate wind was blowing through the overgrowth.
Years. They have a sneaky kind of cruelty.
How many had it been? Three? Four?
Where she is, he cannot follow –
Shrouded there in mystery:
Gone away, Demeter’s daughter,
Once, his fair Persephone…
Her hands had placed a picnic lunch upon this table. Ham sandwiches.
Did the table still remember her touch?
The valley was so rich, so green. Maybe another couple would be along soon. Or a family.
“Life is for the living. The dead have played their part.”
Is it? Have they?
