Page 43 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

It always does.

It comes sniffing around with its cameras and its greed and its headlines and its hungry hands, and I can’t stand it.

I didn’t come up here to be seen.

I didn’t come up here to be consumed.

I came up here because this is the only place that feels real.

This mountain.

The wilderness.

The stark reality of facing down a bear or an eagle or a wolf on any given day.

Weeks without seeing another soul.

Splitting wood when it’s twenty below.

Fixing what breaks because there’s no one else to call.

Spending days on a project just because I can.

Looking myself in the mirror and living with who and what I am.

That is reality.

Out there—where she lives in a city blinded by lights and filters and noise? Where everything is curated and sold and spun into a story?

Is that reality?

Fuck no.

Not to me.

And that’s where she belongs.

So I keep my back to her.

I focus on the sink.

On the faucet.

On the hot water steaming over my hands like I can wash off the fact that she’s here.

I scrub harder than necessary.

My jaw is tight.

My chest feels too full.

Anger vibrates under my skin, sharp and restless, because anger is easier than admitting the truth.

The truth is, I want to turn around.

I want to see if she’s still watching me with those impossible eyes.

I want to know what her skin tastes like when it’s warm and dry instead of rain-cold.