Journey

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They were within a mile-and-a-half of the service roads when they found it.  The trail.  They’d been wandering aimlessly for hours, chilled to the bone, so hungry their stomachs churned and groaned.  And something miraculous had happened.  They’d fought.  Dara had accused Jackson of not paying close enough attention to the trail markers.  Jackson had told her she was frivolous for wearing her pink gym sneakers instead of hiking shoes.   It had devolved into more petty sniping back and forth.  Now that they’d found the trail again and were certain they weren’t going to die of exposure, Dara couldn’t have been happier about their silly argument.

Jackson was always so perfect.  It was unnerving.  Always chivalrous, always saying the right thing, never irritated.  But now she’d seen him at his worst.  If complaining about her shoes was as bad as it got – she could live with it. She would love living with it.

“So, do you still love me?”  Jackson asked as they rounded the last curve, headed for the parking lot.

“Ask me when I’m fed and warm,” Dara said, with the slightest of smiles.

For Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner

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