They stand beside Anna’s car as the cooling engine pops softly. The sun sets over the lake, its reflection dissolving in slim gold undulations.
Squares of yellow light blink on in houses on the opposite shore. It has been a long day. Anna stops about a foot from the waterline and draws out one hand, holding the key loosely in her palm, fingertips curled and hovering. He closes his eyes against the smoke-smudged horizon.
Anna scuffs a shoe over the wet sand and he opens his eyes, watching as she clenches her fist, then suddenly throws the key. It sinks out of sight like a metal fish.
“One,” she says.
“What?”
“Only one. I guess keys don’t make good skipping stones.”
As they return to her car, he’s glad he’s not driving because he wouldn’t have known where to go.
Tags: anna, jenny lewis, writing
