The Patron Saint of Futility

He exits out the back, takes the path that leads to the park. His duffel bag glances off the fence post as he passes through. All his life in fifteen dollars of polyester and plastic. Heavier than he thought. He shifts the weight in his hand as he walks, the strap cutting into his palm.

Enter the girl. He hears her first, the clack of her shoes against the basketball court. Muscles tense as he turns. Clack. His lungs shiver. She stands beneath the court lights, haloed by the smoldering mist, more beautiful than any one thing should ever be. She is canonized, the patron saint of futility.

He does not retreat, does not attack. He knows what inevitable means. The boy stands and waits, listens as the asphalt gives way to grass and dirt.

"Please. Don't do this."

The girl is before him now, sliding her hand down his wrist. He tightens his grip; she weaves her fingers through. His pain drops to the ground.



A sledgehammer blow of sunlight and the boy wakes, to ruffled sheets and an unburdened hand. To damp clothes and clinging leaves, to the mud caked to his shoes. A sledgehammer blow, and the boy wakes up alone.