by Ashton Russell

Sometimes I think about when we went camping in August in Mississippi and it was so hot, we hated each other and the dog got ticks and that night we wondered why our sweat felt like it was rolling up our necks instead of down and then we shined a light on us to see it was ants, not sweat. Remember that? We went with your brother and his wife and their two kids. We had our own tent, but we didn’t know how to build it. That could be the last time I’ve been camping – 15 years ago. We don’t talk now but I think about you from time to time and sometimes you pop up in my dreams and we are still together, never having our ending. And at times when I am in the shower, the water running down my chest, I’ll remember those ants – how they crawled up our wet bodies, the feeling of something rolling up our skin instead of down – and I’ll remember you and me and the heat and the dog and Mississippi nights.

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Ashton Russells’ work has appeared or is forthcoming from the Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, CHEAP POP, and Southeast Review. She lives in Birmingham, Alabama.

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