If I kiss you where it's sore,
Will you feel better (better, better)?
Will you feel anything at all?
--Regina Spektor, "Better"
"It's cold," she said.
"Really strange this year. The way the leaves are still around."
"Yeah. Global warming. We're all dead."
Her gaze drifted up the other hillside. "Oh well."
The grey mist blew and tickled his face.
"Sometimes I want to hop a train," he said.
"Like that one?"
"But it's not moving."
"It could. Any moment."
"It's been there a month, at least."
"I could wait."
She buttoned up her sweater. Her fingers moved like water over rocks. "So what do you want to do?"
"I don't know."
"It doesn't have to be so hard to be happy, you know."
He shrugged his coat more tightly over his shoulders. The mist sprinkled into rain.
Without catching her eye, he took her hand. Squeezed it a little.
Despite the season, it still felt warm.
(The area pictured is just beyond the former dam of Lake Conemaugh, which breached after relentless rains in 1889. The resulting wave destroyed the city of Johnstown, Pennsylvania.)