Elegy
I want to start the story goes, but then the story stops. I want to say you borrowed Chekhov’s gun, but it was just American, a dumb Colt bucking in your hand, neither of you old enough to know better, both ready to run. Speed is ignorant of direction, says the physics text. The part I love about the story that I hate is when it seems you still believe in what comes next, just not for you, is when, after you drink a beer and before you, as they say, do yourself in, meaning out of this world worth saving, you pause to place the can in the recycling bin.