I wish you’d have waited a little longer for me is never something Summer ever heard him say. To her, it was simple, no small thing in late August or early September. Month led way to month, seasons changed, like signs for the next freeway exit, and Summer remembered how he had reached out, his left hand on her right shoulder, when she had tried making light of near-death. She hadn’t seen the black ice around the bend, going too fast over the speed limit. Forever winter could be as cold-blooded and easy as a walk on the beach in Marin County, just beyond the bridge.
The Golden Gate was red, really, which surprised her. Maybe things weren’t as they seemed in the state where the sun no longer shone. They were wearing layers, unstripped.