My Cardboard Balcony

Tonight Was Cold by Belinda Roddie Tonight was cold and windy while we sat on the bench in the park, where dogs scurried past us, freed from their leashes. In a spat on the playground, pre-teens hollered and screamed at one another over God knows what. You held my hand, and you pulsated warmth that I wish I could keep in a jar, but the heat was fleeting. Finally, the storm was enough reason for us to go home and settle on the couch, watching TV and still holding hands. You let your eyes roam across the screen, while my mind wandered free from burdensome, common anxieties, though I knew it was all temporary.

"So, what is this?" asked Barry. "Some kind of secret nerdy cult?" "Very funny, Bobby." "Barry," he patiently corrected. "Whatever." Rose tossed back the hem of her red cloak, revealing a cardboard breastplate pinned to her torso. "It's storytelling. We meet up every Saturday to create new worlds and characters. You know, escapism at its finest." "I can endorse that," Barry said.