Jenna and I are 40, almost 41.
We sit in her car, in the parking lot of an all night grocery store, listening to a song that meant the world when we were 16.
The old emotions return, the old dreams rekindled from embers almost ash. We were going to run to New York, dance every night away.
Up in the sky is a zigzag light, angry and red, and we know the nightmare is about to begin again. Our dreams nothing against the powerful.
Jenna turns to me and touches my face with trembling hands, tenderness before the nightmare begins. Human touch the only consolation.
Then the craft, that angry red light, takes us up, and we awake much later in the car, in daylight.