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Jasmine

I TUCK a bottle of wine and an opener in my picnic basket, along with our lunch and climb in the bus to meet Tom at his place. It’s our last afternoon in Taos before we head to Phoenix with the refugees, and I intend to make the most of it.

I’ve been ignoring the little niggles of anxiety that have been running through me as our end draws ever closer.

I don’t want to think about it. Don’t want to give him up. Being with Tom feels too good.

Too right.

And every time I’m with him, his auric field turns pink.

He loves me.

He hasn’t said it, but it’s clear.

And I feel the same way.

I find him sitting outside his place, waiting for me. He surges to his feet as soon as I pull up.

“Hey, big man,” I call as I jump out and hoist the picnic basket.

“What’s this?” He takes it from me. I didn’t tell him our plans, just that I wanted to

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