Page 300 of Ruthless Court

“You’ll recover.”

She walks toward the railing.

I follow.

The air is colder up here.

She pulls her coat tighter and stares out.

“Wow.”

Stanford sits somewhere below us.

Palo Alto.

Roads threaded with headlights.

Buildings glowing in the distance.

From here, none of it looks important.

Just lights.

Hannah rests her forearms against the wooden rail.

“This was a good choice.”

“Better than the bar?”

“Exponentially.”

“Better than the open mic?”

She considers it.

“No.”

“Harsh.”

“The sourdough poem set a high bar.”

I laugh.

We stay there for a while.

No need to fill it.

Eventually the wind gets stronger, so I lower the tailgate of my truck and we sit side by side.

Hannah’s boots swing several inches above the pavement.

Mine hit the ground.

She notices.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”