The mesquite laid a thick, heavy sweat about the air that night. My love and I could hardly breathe through the symphony of plastic bags caught in the brush, through the moonlight's canvas. And something about the clouds stirred us. I stole away my cello, he bagged his camera, and we took our captives, however unwilling they may have been, north.

Without so much as a note for our loved ones we skipped town, my truck tiptoed as cautiously as it could to the city limits, we wanted so desperately to escape. You see, my cello had never been quite as eager as I to be handled. It ripped at my bow with all the friction it could muster, as though to break a bone. It fought tirelessly for its nocturnes, pegs flailing and strings contracted, a frightened child holding itself intimately.

And my love; his camera only ever saw the world, only ever captured pictures. Lifeless. He couldn't edit quite as much color into his still lives as he'd have liked to, so we ran. Hoping to a god somewhere that new air would refresh our passions.

And the road proved a type of remedy. Maybe it was the stripes that comforted my cello, raised it just a bit more, taught it a few tricks, encouraged it to sing so brass, it was hardly short of shrieking with confidence. And the camera finally opened its eyes, saw the beauty of the world at 90 miles per hour and smiled quietly to itself. Enjoying its new-found adoration of... well, everything. And we continued down a weary, homely, somehow friendly highway for a long while.
It was love.
It was summer.
We were free.