It’s four thirty and the light is nearly gone, but you take a picture anyway. I bring you a coffee and brandy from the club car, the steam rises like a genie from your mug. You want to go back in? you ask and I shake my head no, it feels good out here. That woman from Alberta…you nod and laugh. We’re rushing through a wall of snow now, blowing away from us like we’re in a time tunnel in an old film. My hair is in my eyes, sticking to my cheeks. We watch the tracks, the dark pines. The photo will be dark and out of focus. It's good you can't see my face.

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Kathy Fish lives and writes in Colorado. She has published numerous flash fictions, both online and in print. Her story, "Shoebox" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Currently, she is working on her first novel. She can be contacted at mrsfish1960@yahoo.com

Reprinted from Ink Pot #6; available now