Sometimes in a quiet field or forest clearing, he undoes his backpack and takes out the new world. He sets it all out carefully before placing the two figures at opposite ends. They never have time to find each other before the world is safely packed again. Again and again.
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She'd gone for his rugged, stubbled chin, the coarse, wild waves of his hair and the muscular, square, shoulders. After two weeks, she decided it was time for him to stay over. His rucksack lay unopened at first. And then he undid it. Everyone has baggage, he said. She screamed.
The moss has begun to take over everything. See how it's turned my lovely red coat into a mottled Christmas scene? And my backpack is now fused to a tree! It's time to reclaim them and strike this camp site from my list. Private ponds are the worst amenity ever.
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