By Lee Finch
Your breath didn’t cloud in the cold. After you picked the music and crawled onto the car roof, the animals ran back into the woods. My cheeks pinked, bunny-eared cap useless in the cold. You unfurled beside me.
I would not look at your eyes. I didn’t want that kind of night. But you bizarred the air with sound, touched my hair, and began to braid, fingers and hair twisting. Your eyes drained the red from my cheeks, darkling, as a whippoorwill began to sing against the radio. I still can’t tell if I slept or if I was awake.