Drive up winding roads, the mountainside ragged from wildfire and winter. We reach 11,000 feet and my breath falls short in my lungs. He writes temptations into the ether, I don't know where to put it. A light ache remains, but it doesn't know where to go either, everything is a strange state of suspended disbelief. We arrive at the little ski town by dusk, emptied for the season but still with the scent of chlorinated pools and firewood in the halls.
Make our way to a campground on the other side of the mountain to find the only open restaurant in the park. I sit underneath a deer head. A sign next to it says "probably shot out of season," like a badge of honor. On the way home, we pass enormous elk in the forest glens. Who decides what a season is, anyway.
The bedroom is dark, silent, warm. I sleep well into the morning. The air is trying to tell me something.
I'm almost ready to listen.
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