Country Mouse in a City Apartment

For the first time in a while, I am noticing the warmth from when the sun shines through my window, landing on the row of tiny flowerpots Cowgirl got me this weekend. I tend the soil meticulously, I do everything meticulously this afternoon.
I woke up early this morning, was on the road by 5, leaving the country where I could see a million stars, so dark that the arm of the Milky Way was visible, headed back for my little apartment , for my quiet room. Leaving the cold, hard, tile floors of Cowgirl's house, the thermometer reading 37 degrees inside, the single space heater to warm the whole place.

My room still has traces of her from this weekend. An empty pack of cigarettes on the desk. Loose change on the dresser. A glass of water next to the bed. A red flannel shirt on my chair. My bed smells like her perfume. Wild Musk. The bunny looks at me expectantly; she's gotten ten times the number of treats in the past few days as usual. She misses Cowgirl, I think. I'm frugal with the apple chips.

I cried as I drove home on Wednesday to pick her up. The moment my truck hit the dirt roads, an hour and a half from the middle of nowhere, I turned up the country music and let myself cry. I forgot how much I like the trees bending over the roads, dogs chasing next to your truck, dirt billowing up behind you. I forgot how much sometimes, you need a break from the city. You need to see stars.

You can't see the stars here. Cities aren't good for natural beauty. You can't see the stars, no. But right now, for the first time in a long time, I can feel the sun.