Walking home in the earlier end of the night, Self got a conspiratorial grin on my face and nudged me in the ribs, eyebrows raised, suggesting that we have been so well behaved for too long, that it's time for running away and changing names. Time to go hunting in the Palouse for those worms that smell like lilies, time for bonfires and holding hands and kicking shins and talking too much about boats. Time to move to Argentina and learn how to cook.
I scowled at Self, shook my head firmly. We will not be moving to Argentina or kicking anything or finding fragrant white worms. We have things going on, plans coming up, drinking on patios and sitting in parks to do.
Self grumbled, and for a moment we paused and considered the poppies grown up along the road, trying to regather our truce. Those poppies are almost done for the season, their petals almost flat, nearly falling off. A month ago their petals were all furled, tucked under a little cap. I looked at Self and Self looked at me and we both shrugged and continued walking. Some of our conflicts won't bear resolving.