by Bonniel Rostok

Created on: May 14, 2009

Then I take the kiss back from his mouth. The sun, directly above, blinds me a moment. I draw away from him and turn my head to avoid the rays. My hair falls over my face. He brushes it away from my eyes with his fingertips.
Today is my birthday. He has brought me here to our hill with a picnic basket and a blanket and a bottle of wine.
He lights a cigarette. I lie on my back and watch the smoke curl around him. He has more grey in his hair now than when I first met him. The lines around his mouth and eyes are deeper. I feel the sun and his eyes on my face. I leave for school the day after tomorrow.

I sit up and take a sip from my glass. The taste of the liquid makes me think of him. It is warm and covers my tongue with a sweetness and a bitterness that makes me wince and my eyes water for a moment.
We are a generation apart. That's what he told me. I've never thought of it that way. My father and I are a generation apart. It never occurs to me that he is from any other generation than my own.
We have eliminated generations. At least I had, he said. Twenty years was a fact he couldn't forget. His face looks like he's thinking about it right now.
He was married. I try to see his face somewhere other than against grass and sky. I can't picture her. I've seen her photo before but I can't remember what she looks like. Maybe they went to parties together. She wore a black gown with gold around the collar. He wore a tuxedo. Together, they look like the pictures of celebrities in magazines.
I look at him and smile. He is anything but a celebrity. His eyebrows are too bushy and he has an adam's apple. All he ever wears are t-shirts, sweatshirts, and jeans.
We fought a lot, he said. She didn't want to have children. I want children. He and I don't fight too much. Only when he thinks he's getting old. That's when he doesn't want me. He wants a family, someone closer to his own age who is settled. I'm not settled. I leave for school the day after tomorrow. I climb into his arms. He takes the cigarette from his mouth and mashes it into a plastic cup. I reach for the pack and put one into my mouth. I don't smoke. He laughs as he watches me move it up and down on my lower lip. I let it dangle from the corner of my mouth. He is pointing out a bird that has landed near us. What is it? I don't know what it is. I want to get up and chase it. He holds me back.
He leans down, removes the cigarette from

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