Chris was moping again. Sherri shook her mop of purple hair and plucked the pen from his hand, replaced the legal pad in his lap with her person. She tasted his lips and waited for him to abandon his sour mood and begin to chase her mouth when she pulled back. Standing up, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the front door.

“You need to go outside,” she said brightly.

He glowered. “I need to finish this poem.”

“It can wait. What about adventure? What have you always wanted to do?”

“I dunno,” he said.

“C’mon! Think. Anything. What’s on your bucket list?”

He shrugged, an angry gesture. “I don’t have one; they’re cliché.”

“I’m sure there’s something you want to do before you die.” Sherri maneuvered him onto the porch.

“I guess I’ve always wanted to…”

“Go on.”

“I guess I want to see the redwoods out in California.”

“There you go! A road trip to California! Time to get started!” She began to close the door.

“Wait!” Chris said, “Aren’t you coming?”

Her expression turned stoic. “No. Live your own adventure. I’m not here to save you. I have work in the morning.” The door slammed.