Page 55 of Blind Prophet

Brown overgrown grasses mix in with the rocky terrain.

There’s no smooth ground in sight.

He sets me down like an injured child and begins touching my arms, back, and legs, focus trained on me. He’s looking for injuries.

“Why are you crying?” Desperation coats his words.

Am I crying?

He dabs at my cheeks, and I sniffle.

I close my eyes.

Holy shit. We almost died.

An explosion rips through the air.

I scream.

A black cloud of smoke rises from the tail of the helicopter.

The smell of burnt fuel permeates the air, and I could swear I can hear slight crackling noises, only it’s not a campfire.

“Are you okay?”

He’s still touching me.

We’re alive.

“Hope you didn’t love that helicopter.”

He once professed his love for a Porsche. I’d imagine this helicopter costs a lot more.

He laughs. It’s a guttural sound. I haven’t heard him laugh in… He’s a blur through my teary eyes.

He sits down on the boulder beside me and pulls me onto his lap.

Pink polish catches my attention. I’m missing one shoe.

I lean against his chest.

There’s pressure on my head. He kissed my head.

The tears flow in heavy, quiet streams.

“I told you not to get your pilot’s license.”

“Wanna know something funny? I thought about that as we were going down.”

“So did I.” I snort, sending snot straight out of my nostrils. It’s so gross. I wipe my nose, but then I catch his eye, and suddenly I’m laughing, too.

We should not be laughing, but I can’t stop.

When the hysterical laughter subsides, I rest my head against his shoulder, spent.

He lets out a sigh.

During all the laughter, my butt slid off his thigh onto the mossy stone, and my legs drape his. He places an arm across my legs, and the familiarity aches.

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