Scott Ross - Prose

The rain continues, occasional lighting peppers this town.  I remember the day we were rained 
out of a picnic, when we were stuck, gladly, beneath a flimsy park awning for most of the day.  
There were people beneath other awnings, people whose dreams of frisbee tosses and 
barbecues were dashed by the sudden summer storm.

I needed you then to talk to, to comfort me, to calm my fears.  I need you now, as you prepare 
to leave.  I see the empty wall pictures used to occupy.  Soon you'll be gone, living at some 
apartment complex I've never seen, but with a name like "Spanish Arms" or "Willow Creek," 
where singles have a designated parking space and eat fast food in front of  the TV, alone, no 
pets or hopes allowed.

I want to ask you, once again, not to go, to forgive me.  If my mouth could move again, I would, 
but it's dry from begging and too much beer. Anyway, I see your back and it's too late, and it's no 
use, and your leaving has been coming for many, many days.