Today felt like the world had remembered how to laugh.
We struck out early, the valley mist still clinging to our boots, and headed up toward a ridgeline Billy had been eyeing since yesterday. Said he wanted to see “how far the world went.” I told him it was infinite, and he said, “That’s what cowards say when they’re too lazy to climb.” I believe that’s what scholars refer to as mutual encouragement.
The ascent wasn’t steep, just long, and full of switchbacks. The kind that dare you to turn back, then seduce you with the view when you don’t. Halfway up, Billy started making up an entirely fictional autobiography involving a circus, three wives (all named Jolene), and a talking goose who stole his identity. I countered by insisting I was once a ballet instructor for centaurs in a kingdom made entirely of licorice. We argued over choreography for half a mile.
At the top, we found heaven. A wide ledge framed by twisted juniper and smooth stone, overlooking a painted desert of layered reds and golds. It looked like someone had taken a brush to the whole horizon. We stood in silence for a moment—not the heavy kind, but the awe kind. The kind you only get when the world feels bigger than your sorrow.
Billy took my hand. Just for a second. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to.
We stayed there most of the afternoon. Ate jerky and apples. Played a lazy game of “Would You Rather” that devolved into absurdity. (Would you rather fight one horse-sized duck, or have to eat soup forever with a fork?) I claimed divine exemption from the rules; he threw a pebble at me. It landed in my lap. He looked far too pleased with himself.
Eventually, I pulled out my knife and carved a small glyph into the stone—just a spiral. Nothing dramatic. A reminder that we had passed through this place. That we had existed here, together, for a little while.
On the way back down, he tripped and took me with him, and we tumbled into a pile of arms, laughter, and bruised pride. He landed on top of me, grinning like a devil. “Still think the world’s infinite?”
“Only when you’re in it,” I said before I could stop myself.
He didn’t answer. Just kissed me—quick and sun-warmed. Then hauled me up by the collar like I was a sack of oats.
Tonight, as I write this by firelight, he’s humming some tune I don’t know. Off-key and perfect. I think the gods would forgive me if I stayed a little longer.
I think, maybe, they already have.
