Ripple, by Nichole Turnbloom

I promised myself I would stop hating you. I sent kind thoughts to embrace what is genuine, but the wind was strong that day. It blew my intention off-course where it landed as mist upon the mustard sweater of some stranger as she entered her car, evaporated in the heat that blew slanted from the dashboard, released whiffs of jasmine that reminded her of a childhood friend long lost. At lunch, a birthday cake in the dimmed break room. The spiral-torches burned long tips as her co-workers sung, she thought of her childhood friend. Cast her wish into the wind.