“You don’t even know who I am. You *can’t* stay here forever.”
“I know, I know.” He looked out across the field of flowers — ‘nother one.
“We could dance before you go. I can do that for you. One last dance.”
“Mary Jane–”
“That’s not my name,” she interrupted. “You know my name.”
“June, yes,” he offered. “Like the month.”
“A particular June as well. This June.”
“Okay.”
“Not Jane.”
“Alright, alright.” Perhaps this wasn’t Paradise after all. Like she said, he must return. No short way to the center for certain.
