For a day, they pack up their tired bones and leave the death, the chaos, and the terrible, pressing danger behind them.
She slips feet that only remember practical boots and walking over fresh graves and scorched earth into flirty, carefree sandals, and it is surreal and freeing in the most dislocated way. She wears a pretty sun dress, paints lip gloss on her mouth, and pretends as she packs their picnic that she is a real girl, like she used to be.
He dons comfy Converse, their faded red canvas feeling thin and unprotected around arches, heels and toes that just want to stop running (and don't know how). His jeans are old and worn, like his soul, and his T-shirt hints at muscles that could only be shaped by fighting tooth and nail. It almost hides all the scars.
They climb into his car and tell the long shadows behind them to wait. Wait just 24 hours. They'll be back, then, and can be swallowed whole in darkness more than lack of light once again.
The road rolls out beneath the tires