The wheel chair caught on the gravel. I pushed harder. Her eyes bore into my back. When I reached the sidewalk at the end of the driveway, the front door slammed behind me. The wheels moved smoothly along the cement.
In the spring, I mailed a bouquet of hand made origami flowers from Indian Creek. In the summer, I left the base of Half Dome to scream her name when she graduated UC Santa Cruz. In the fall, we kissed. Then she ignored me.
I broke my body in the winter, falling in Joshua Tree. She screamed when she heard the news. From my hospital bed, I asked her what she wanted. She said "friend." I only heard "end." I stayed with her while I learned to walk again. When I left, we kissed again, with more passion.
For a moment, it was good. Then I wanted more. I wanted love in return. She was hesitant. It crushed me. Why was I doing this to myself?
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