The truth is, they had been lovers for many months now. His first, her second. But they loved each other, deeper possibly than they had ever loved anyone else in their lives. He was drawn to her artistic free-spirit; she to his quiet, confident nature.
They told each other everything, including her dreams to travel abroad and his desires to take care of her. His parents didn't understand and her parents didn't care. They planned to marry, to live like hippies, supertramps backpacking the country, sleeping on the beach and the sides of roads. She dreamed of singing her songs to strangers and he envisioned holding her in his arms.
Two weeks ago, they started arguing. It started with her distance, shrugging him off, not talking. He asked about her silence but she didn't answer. Then she became easily agitated, nitpicking his shoes and hair. Eventually, driven to dispair, he began talking and yelling. Sometimes she responded; sometimes not. She no longer allowed him to hold her and began refusing to see him.
Three weeks ago, she found out she was pregnant. A baby was a weight, she knew, to hold her down and chain her forever. Scared and just 17, she cut herself free a week later then cried for three days.
This would be the last time she saw him, this Freedom Festival, for she had packed her backpack and guitar and would be leaving town. She would kiss him good-bye and walk away. He would call on her tomorrow, only to find a note of her intention. He would never know why, even as an old man, but would miss her still.
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