Short Days And Maybes
She hears a twig snap.
Spike.
He never gels his hair anymore, the peroxide strands curling at the top of his
head. And she wonders why he never wears his coat these days (sometimes he
looks like he's missing something without it). Maybe he lost it in a fight – a
battle between demons ('cause he's always fighting monsters now). He doesn't
speak; he stands beside her instead. How many times have they shared here, on
this porch? She decides it's better not to say anything.
"Hey."
Maybe days just seem shorter because most of her time spent is at night.