She was almost out of my jurisdiction. When you set the distance parameters, it’s best to be realistic considering the weather and person. Una Manzini had the kind of smile that made dandelions blush; a free spirit exceptional in matters both chemical and unnerving. A Harvard alum who studied abroad at Cambridge, except when she told the story on our first date, it was mostly just raves and beans that semester. Una only mentioned Reginald once. He was just some footballer she’d shacked up with in the country that summer when they lived and loved off the land.

I still couldn’t figure why she’d chosen me out of the rest within a forty-mile radius. I was a stagnant fool in a cushy coaching gig with nothing but spare time. I enjoyed the tattered outdoors, making sarcastic observations and talking about only myself. I was the most pertinent person in the room no matter the company or swath of relevant topics, and as Una so eloquently put it: I was worth the drive.

We were fringe casual, but soon crispy and devoted, spending weekends in my shammy one-bedroom, or out in the sun on her overgrown slice of the world. It was only a couple acres, but Una made the most of her swath with chickens, gardens and flowers where nobody sane thought flowers should be. There was an irrigation system and solar generators, pure organic grain alcohol poured into coaster-lined Six Flag shot glasses and quickly downed while jamming a pile of dime-store schlock she found buried in the closest town. We swayed like mammoth procrastinators in the bellowing candlelight and promised to make the most of every moment together.

I only realized later how little I really knew. She pretended to be a painter, but that didn’t pay the bills. If it was drugs, then I couldn’t fathom her clientele being all that versatile; Una briefly mentioning country primitives trading her vegetables for dimebags sometime around our third encounter. I didn’t meet her friends until six weeks in; the first and only being Charlie, the motorcycle repairman and reborn Christian. He was hairier than most, luscious Jesus locks bouncing around on her patio.

Una and Charlie had known each other forever, harmonizing to some strangled high-pitched anthem drowned in fuzz. She didn’t really listen to music, mostly wilderness murdercasts. Still, there was another side I sought with each subsequent interaction. I longed for the exact version of Una that made my pulse soar. There had to be an absolute truth buried somewhere past her brunette bangs, her mysterious dimples that only appeared when we were alone, the way she howled into the pink moon, but cared endlessly for the dirt beneath our feet, how it could nourish even the most microscopic of life.

“It’s all dying, ya know?” She’d tell me as we hammocked in the brisk August night.

“I know,” I’d reply before talking about some program watched on my lunchbreak.

Games for money were an absolute in both our lives. We played them in our best attire, often staying quiet solely to hear others chewing their words for recognition. I only voiced my distaste for the human race when she’d finished her latest environmental rant or economic washout. Una never liked it much when I turned negative, usually distracting herself with butterflies or fertilizer while I relented in our separate domiciles.

When she came over, we never went out, despite my insistence to watch another middling ensemble butcher old favorites from our youth. Bars just weren’t her thing, although it became extremely difficult to figure out how Una maintained sanity in the hours we weren’t together. She loathed social media and rarely mentioned family, extended or otherwise. There weren’t friends sending Christmas cards or much community to speak of with the exception of her weekly gardening group.

It was in a particular slow patch of fall when I reluctantly tagged along to the seven o’clock meeting. Sure enough, they were all of the soil, casually prepping for some rapturous escape from daily monotony. They drank and smoked cigarettes, plenty generous with their time and spirits. Holding her hand, I pretended it was my future, laughing at jokes while subscribing to her tangled allusion of belonging. Una fit right in, but by then, I was deep enough to ignore sneaking suspicions. We had fun making love like it was our last day on earth.

I completely blanked when news of the blast surfaced. Menta-Harmonics was known for their unethical business practices, but they seemed like one of a dozen conglomerates draining the dirt of its nutrients. I called her that day to see if we were getting together, but she didn’t answer. Later, I would learn she always used a burner phone to keep things separate. It would be another three days before the investigators knocked on my door eager for answers I couldn’t give.

“We were just keeping things casual, Una and I.” So much sweat poured out of me. “It was never meant to be anything serious.”

The suits were young, but still understood my plight, why I hadn’t really given her hobbies much thought. I was just the dumb boyfriend, the one who didn’t know better, but was still willing to talk to whoever listened. She sensed I’d be good at that part, which is why I was probably chosen in the end. The right voice to show that Una was human, still striving for some kind of greater understanding. I was television-ready with plenty of free time to tell our story, except it never really felt much like ours. She owned it, but we would remain acquainted long after Una left this earth, forever dancing under the influence of moonshine and starlight.

– Christopher S. Bell