Someone else's bucket

Vic rolled up the tent, and fumbled ineffectually at it, trying to attach it to his backpack with cold-numbed fingers. Vivian said in a bright (brittle?) voice, “Here clumsy, let me do that for you.” She reached past him and locked it in place with a single assured flip that he desperately envied.

Standing up with a sigh, he started walking onward, ignoring the magnificent vista stretched behind him. “I don’t know why you brought us out here Vic, you don’t seem to be enjoying it much,” she said. He permitted himself an internal smile, he was nearly there.

They stopped for a break at an observation point. Vivian was still convincing him to come meet her parents when he gave her an unexpected shove into space, and watched with fascination as she spun like a paper plane out of control, to end up in an anonymous pile at the bottom of the gorge.

He left, whistling, and reached into his pocket. There, in between “Learn French” and “French-kiss a cheerleader”, he placed a tick next to “Commit the perfect murder”.

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