The Small Things

You have to look way over your shoulder, nearly three years, to get close to the last time Russ had enough acquaintance with luxury to demand ice in his drink. It was the small things, he always said - unwrapping a new bar of soap, the sharpish edges on that, or having spares on hand when the batteries died. Some minor amount of phone data. He missed hot and cold equally, and would have done serious damage for an ice cream, just ask him. His tent was shit at temperature control: the ground got so cold his back would seize up, and other end of the calendar the sun was a goddamn poker. And by-law? By-law was full of assholes, ask anyone, always moving them on. But mostly it was June he dwelled on. He missed June something awful, more than any lemonade. She was everything to him until suddenly she was nowhere, that still unfathomable morning drilled deeper into memory than even the last ice age.