Fragments of the Future

She could see it, staring up at the sun, fragments of a future silhouetted against the swirling orange light.

Not a waltz or a promenade, how trite those would be. Everyone saw their future or past as moments of glory or fame, but not her. Instead, she saw them turn, walk, reach out with splayed hands, their fingertips close enough to feel the air currents pass between them.

Nothing special. Her visions were ordinary, routine, every day mundane. Kissing her shoulder while she washed the dishes, the search for keys lost in a pile of mail or putting down his hex wrench to watch her type, oblivious to anything except her own words.

Fragments of a future they were cheated of by an oil slick and a rusty 92 Civic.

She saw it until they shut her eyes and zipped her in.