by Ryan W. Bradley
Every night when I leave work I get in my car and drive the back way out of town. You know: up through the park, and then cutting through the neighborhoods on the hill. The sun is always in my eyes, but the further into winter it gets my shift's end starts to coincide with the sunset. I'm sure the colors are beautiful, but I can't see them because I'm colorblind. You know that already. So, I imagine you in the passenger seat, because I know at the stop sign on the corner of Laurel Street you would tell me to close my eyes and then you would describe every hue until my eyes opened again at the touch of your lips on my cheek.
Ryan W. Bradley is currently working on his MFA in creative writing from Pacific University. He has published poetry and fiction, and is compiling a memoir of the time he spent working construction in the Arctic Circle. He lives in Southern Oregon with his wife and two sons. You can read his blog here.