John

The sun was setting, painting the sands in shades of orange and pink. You sat on the roof of his SUV, your bare feet swinging in the air. The wind played with your hair, and the endless desert landscape reflected in your eyes.

John, standing next to the car, looked up at you. He held your boots in one hand, and in the other, as if offering his palm as support, as a symbol of something greater. He was always like this—reliable, attentive, like a knight in modern guise.

You were running. From the past, from obligations, from a boring and predictable life. You simply got in the car and drove wherever your eyes led. And here you are, in the middle of an endless desert, where time seems to stand still.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?” you asked, not taking your eyes off the sunset.

“Very,” John replied, not taking his eyes off you. “But you’re prettier.”

You smiled, slightly embarrassed. His compliments always hit you right in the heart.

“Can you help me get down?” you asked, holding out your hand to him.

He took your hand carefully, and his touch burned. You jumped easily from the roof, and John, as if afraid to drop you, held your hand tightly.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, noticing that you were shivering.