Cara Jean-Jones

Melony snapped the photo. "There," she said holding up her phone for Cara to see.

"I don't like it."

"Again?" Melony looked at it again and grimaced. "I think it's fine. I can't keep taking these."

"It's a passport. I'm stuck with image for ten years!"

"I realize that. But who's going to look at it?"

"Customs agents." Cara grinned.

Melony laughed. "Sure. But it'll be tiny. Have you seen one before?"

"Just take another one."

The train thundered overhead, carrying people home from long days at work. A spark blazed briefly like an arc of lightning casting shadows at odd angles. Cara covered her ears until the volume lowered. It was nearly dark out and the air was chilly. Street lights cast overlapping yellow-orange cones down onto the world. She worked her fingers into a pair of gloves. Her shoes clicked on the sidewalk as she made her way home.

Everyone was moving, nervous to get back indoors. A week ago people were standing about, talking and laughing, enjoying the last moments of summer weather in the Midwest. Each year it came and went, the constant change of the seasons created a cyclical life style always a few moments behind reality.

The game finished with another spilled mug of root beer. She picked up her can of beer and downed a long gulp. Cara wiped her brow and tucked a bit of hair behind her ear. Michael was trying to get her attention, but she wanted to forget him and tried to ignore him completely. He was repeating her name again and again. She surveyed the room; so many clusters of people surrounded many old video games. It was loud and hot. Her damp skin was sticky and she was thinking of going home.

"Michael, I do not want to talk to you," she said.

"I knew you knew me," he said. "Wait, why not?"

"If I have to tell you."

"Ominous."

"Look, I'm not in the mood tonight."

"What did I do?"

She elbowed her way past him, but ended up straight in the chest of a tall, lanky man.