Permanent Sunset

When the sun dips behind the Mule Mountains, desert air becomes frigid. We’re seated inside our favorite restaurant. Tiny candles flicker inside glass jars, and a nearby window fogs from the cold. Our server approaches, notepad in hand: same order every time. Vegetarian pizza, extra olives. Manhattan with a submerged brown craft cherry. Goblet of merlot, half-full. I press the moment inside my head like a dried flower. Next year, you’ll be dead, and the sky will be colder than ever.