PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields
Five minutes in the old city and she was lost.
Countless winding alleyways walled with golden stone, scented with spices or stables or wine, hustling with traders and patched thieves. She didn’t care. She would have worn the city as a coat, eaten every crumbling temple, sunk into its foundations like good, sweet rain, she loved it so.
The city was him. He had worn it on his skin like cologne, grown golden in its reflected rays.
Now he had slipped into the desert forever. But some days she could imagine turning a corner, being blinded by gold …