On Remembering, a short collection

by Wess Foreman

  I'm sorry, she says at last, I'm sorry — thanks for the ride. It's good to see you, Leito. She opens the door, activating interior light — Leito in the spotlight, blinded — Leito's suit coat comes back inside, on the seat beside him, folded over.

  He says, Goodnight.

  She says in a whisper, Thanks for the ride, Leito. I'm sorry. Goodnight. She closes the door, hugging her bare arms and walking away from him, darting in and out of headlights as she walks, disappearing with a little wave into one of the downstairs apartments. Leito drives away. Life goes on.

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