My wife is a child again, kicking through the leaf-strewn pavement. The chill autumnal air has left her cheeks as red as the leaves. She stops and buries her feet – her ankles sunk deep into the season. Her shoes are orange and gold, made of a thousand crisp, dry souls.
She is rooted in fire and my world is a frozen breath.
And then she kicks — once, twice — filling the air with bursts of vermillion.
‘Got you!’ she crows.
I chase her home and into the bedroom where I fling her down and tear away her petals, one by one.