Pacific Coast Highway
by KindKit

All night Oz drives north. At dawn he parks, settles on a rock to watch the sea, lights up a joint that might let him sleep.

The sharpest pains — Willow with Tara, a steel table and shocks convulsing his body — he locks in a little cupboard below his mind. To let them age.

Old memories taste better, the pain gone melancholy, rich, wine-subtle.

Giles loved to read out loud, doing Mole and Rat and Toad in funny voices while Oz laughed. Bedtime stories and then bed, salty-sweet kisses and the creak of aging springs.

Giles always kissed like saying goodbye.