The power lines connected to telephone poles dangled sharply dark and loose in the pink sky. The boy and the girl held hands, and her black flip-flops slapped the wet pavement quietly with each step.
He wanted to tell her that the sky looked like cotton candy, or roses, or the finger nail polish he would imagine his mother might have worn. He scratched his nose with his free hand instead, and said quietly, “I have to be home by seven, or seven thirty, something.” His voice trailed off.
“Okay.” She squeezed his hand tighter.
Lights came on in the houses and over their heads, and the sky faded slowly from the cotton candy pink to a fiery orange, then blushing red, then bruised purple until entirely deadened black.
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