“I... I like being your date, Daddy.”“Me, too,” I told her, savoring the feel of her on my arm, the presence of her against me.I was impatient to get to our destination, but I didn't want to rush us. I didn't want us tired. We only had another thirty or so minutes to go. She held the picnic basket in one hand, her other arm clutched tightly about mine. There was an energy about her. Infectious. Bubbly. We could both feel it.Those words had changed everything. Then I noticed a furrow in her brow as we passed an outcropping of rock that looked climbable. She stared up at it to the flat top and the gnarled juniper bent over it. Then she looked ahead. “Is there... a field of wildflowers ahead?”“Uh-huh,” I said.“You and Mommy took me here when I was a child, didn't you?” she said, looking up at the outcropping. “I climbed up that and felt like I could see everything, and there...” She pointed at the old stump on the side of the trail, broken off and jagged, not from a tree cut down but by. It wasn't a home. He knew that this was the place he was going to die in when he rented it. A television, a toilet, a microwave and a bed were the only furnishings in the place. It was a place that maintained the basics, but nothing else. He had no yard, and his ancient Plymouth needed to be parked on the street, necessitating that he not spend any time in the house before six, lest the parking police come and take it away. Weekends were the only exception.He tossed the plastic cup into a corner, and pulled his guitar into his lap. It was a nice instrument, not expensive, but not cheap either. His back rested against the wall as he closed his eyes and began picking out a slow piece. There were no chords in the song, just notes rising and falling with his breath. As he played, his eyes opened and lighted on the note he had finished writing. It had been spat out perfectly from the bowels of his computers printer. He had considered creating a more immersive experience for the note, by.
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