Crash by Vanessa Waltz

sunshine into the next room, which poured through the glass windows. There, I found an extremely tired looking Will surrounded by a banquet of food. He looked dead on his feet.
    On the left was a table with plates and I grabbed one, loading it with food: figs stewed in tea, some sort of concoction with grapefruit, fresh rolls, and homemade jam.
    “Would you like coffee or tea? Traditional English breakfast or would you like the American version?”
    I might as well go all the way. “Tea and English breakfast, thank you.”
    She left the room and I nodded at Will from across the table. His eyes were bloodshot.
    He sipped his coffee. “This British coffee is weak shit,” he hissed.
    “Will, you should really go for a nap. I can walk around by myself.”
    He shook his head stubbornly. “I’ll be fine.”
    “What do you think about the food so far?”
    Will nodded in a so-so manner. “She wins points for making and selling her own jam. And it’s actually pretty good.”
    I spread some of the gooseberry jam over a fresh roll and I moaned at the explosion of flavor. “Wow, that is good.”
    “Here it is!” Mary re-entered the solarium with a heavy plate of food for me. She dropped it in front of me.
    “Uh—thanks!”
    There was a pile of what looked like canned beans in a red sauce, fried tomato slices, strips of what looked like ham, and fried eggs. Will smirked at me from across the table and laughed when I tried some of the beans. On the whole, it was pretty unremarkable.
    “What is this?”
    I forked the meat, which was very thick and fatty.
    He laughed. “It’s English bacon.”
    I tried it. It was too thick and reminded me of ham. I immediately set it aside and picked my way throughout the plate.
    “I don’t like it,” I said in an undertone.
    Will gave me an amused glance. “It’s a traditional dish. If you asked me, I would have told you to avoid it.”
    I didn’t ask you . “It’s not too bad.” I shrugged.
    After breakfast, Will and I left the cottage to explore the Cotswolds. We drove to Bourton-on-the-Water, where a wide, slow river ran through the whole village. Low-arched stone bridges added to the charm of the bustling village, which looked like something out of a Hollywood set. The little stone houses bordered the river and a market of vendors selling wool clothing made the whole place seem somehow fabricated. Places like this simply couldn’t exist. Most of the village’s population had greying or white hair. William and I were probably the youngest people there.
    “God, I would kill myself if I lived here.”
    “What did you expect? We’re in the country.”
    I bought a Cornish pasty from a vendor on the street, which was delicious. It was filled with spiced meat and vegetables. Then we drove to a pair of villages called the Slaughters and parked the car. I wanted to walk around and really get a feel for the place. I had never seen such beauty. The feeling of being sucked into a fairytale book was overwhelming. The stone cottages side by side, the quiet, little rivers woven through the village, the beautiful green trees and farm fields surrounded us. Everything was so moist and green. I couldn’t believe how quiet it was. It was strange to not hear the sounds of construction, of cars, of anything, really, except songbirds and the rustling of squirrels in trees. I had never been in such a place. I felt totally removed from civilization and I experienced a peace that I never felt before.
    We walked along the river, passing by people quietly tending to their gardens, and came upon a mill on the river, which was next to a souvenir shop. Behind the shop was a path to the next village: Upper Slaughter.
    Will walked beside me and I gave him a smile. I had to keep resisting the urge to pinch myself. How could this be real? The dirt path followed the river and on both sides were fields of grazing sheep. There was nothing but the sounds of our feet walking, the gentle river playing and the