Sun Spots

“…16, 17, 18,” and a soft touch along her arm woke Miriam.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll never leave you until I’ve counted every freckle.”
“I love you, too,” Miriam murmured, pulling the comforter up tighter against the cold night.

“2,352, 2,353.” Rubio pushed aside Miriam’s auburn hair.
It was the first day that felt like spring and they shared a bench in the park. Miriam took the shade side and left the sunny one for him. “Shall I try to count the dark hairs on your arm?” she laughed.
“Don’t you want to feel the sun, just for a minute?”
She wasn’t sure she did. She had grown leery of it, but being with him dared her to risk a little for her pleasure. The sun was like his words. They gave her life, but occasionally they could sting. She paused a moment, then lay on the grass, ready to take the sun face on.

“4,789, 4,790.” The numbers had become a constant background to her life, as comforting as the soft June air coming in the windows.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said.
“Don’t you want your hat?’
“Why? Are you afraid?” she teased.

“10,116, 10,117. There are more ... I recounted your ear.”
“Why do you do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You could stop, you know.”
“I’ll think about it.”

“Miriam, we’d like to get you two over for our Labor Day cookout.”
“We’re just one, now.”
“What happened?”
“Summer.”

—Sydney Blackwell, Willow Road