He said. She said.

The reds and blues of fireworks flashed across the lake from where they sat watching on the hill.

“They are beautiful this year,” he said. “Can you see them?”

“I can,” she said, but she couldn’t.

She felt along the blanket. He dipped his hand into the basket and placed a triangle in her hands.

“Here,” he said.

“It’s so dark tonight,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, looking at the long shadows cast by the moon, “quite dark.”

They ate their sandwiches in silence, listening to the rising booms.

“The finale should be soon,” she said and leaned against him.

“Not just yet,” he said.

The sky burned with the shimmering lights.

“Please,” she said.

“I can’t,” he said, but he could.

The reds and blues of the final bang flashed along the road hours later to where they lay waiting on the hill.

--

This is one of the things I scribbled down earlier in the week. It is more of a skeleton than a fully fleshed out piece. Overall I feel it moved too fast and wasn't quite clear enough on what was happening. I enjoy trying to convey an idea without saying it outright, but I'll probably try doing this one again as a little less vague.

Edit: Oh, perhaps I should mention: I switched from updating every day to once a week. The other schedule was great for bulking up the blog a bit when I first started it, but the post rate was a touch draining when piled on top of other things. I decided to update on Mondays strictly to make my audience look forward to the one day of the week most everyone else agrees on hating.

Blindfold the Moose: Making ironic choices since 2008.