Peach Tea

        Her brother took another sip of the peach tea drink he'd decided he didn't like, and set the glass back down on the table. She sat across from him, gazing softly through the window across the field outside the diner.
        "I should call him," she wondered aloud, biting her bottom lip. "I shouldn't put it off."
        "I think it'd be all right," he offered, "if you just called him in the morning."
        "No," she murmured, "then I would fret about it all night."
        Will she really not fret if she calls him now? Her brother thought to himself as his sister laid her palm against her belly, which rolled out like the gentle curve of the hills outside. Or will she worry either way, caught between what she might say tomorrow and what she will have already said tonight? It doesn't matter; I don't think she will sleep very well this evening.
        He looked to the sunset and wondered if God had ordered the same peach tea drink and not liked it, opting to pour it out into the twilight with stars like bits of ice floating above the horizon.