It was a night with no moon, and Graeme’s telescope focused, not at stars or planets but at the neighbor’s fancy pepper mill and a ruby-red wine glass on the table. You were two hours and a river-crossing away, probably dancing or eating or adding more tequila to the pre-mixed margaritas. I spied: the table’s woodgrain the way the dimmed lights settled in the red goblet. We stood on the back deck, cold and wet from spring rain the sky cloud-covered sifting east, maybe dipping south. The clouds the only thing to travel from you to me, until the next day, the break in cover, a ringtone and then, of course, the gravel-crunch of your voice.
Renée K. Nicholson is a former ballet dancer and current ballet instructor in Morgantown, West Virginia. Her poems, fiction, and non-fiction have appeared or are forthcoming in Chelsea, Mid American Review, The Honey Land Review, Paste, Naugatuck River Review and The Gettysburg Review, other journals and anthologies.