the lying days

She watched me put my things in the car from the window. It was raining that day—pouring. I tried not to, but I couldn’t help looking up at her. Her eyes were wide and her fingers were pressed against her lips. I couldn’t tell for sure if she was crying—knowing her, she was—or if I was merely seeing the raindrops splashed against the windowpanes. I didn’t have much with me; I hadn’t had much when I came here, either. A duffel bag and a backpack, my guitar. A year ago, I had met a girl with blond hair and an easy smile and I had decided to stay, which wasn’t something I had ever done before. But the roads would be getting bad out west soon enough, and I heard the Rockies calling my name. The world is bigger than a girl, I figured, even one who laughs at all your jokes and tells stories that make your stone heart ache.