June 6, 2015 § Leave a comment
I found this piece today in my computer, and while I don’t particularly remember writing it five years ago, I remembered the feeling of it as I read it today. It’s funny how writing can do that…bring someone who’s been through five more years worth of moments back to just one. And make them feel it all over again, and so powerfully.
She’s small and standing there in her blue shoes, the soft felt ones that get so wet in weather like this. The puddles are seeping into tiny holes near the bottom, and he’s thinking about how those shoes will squish, squish, squish all her way home, all the way home alone. And she’s standing there in the stupid wet shoes, pushing them harder into the road as if she can break through the concrete, and her green eyes are sliding all along the face of the apartment. Her eyes are wise and unseeing and beautiful, so beautiful, but they are not looking at him, they are looking at the apartment. And he is standing there and his lips are smiling but his eyes are something else. They are unlike her eyes, and not because they are brown, but because they are seeing, and they are seeing her. They are seeing the soft whiteness of her skin, not white like a freshly printed manuscript but off-white like a well-loved book resting comfortably on a mahogany table. They are seeing the way her fingers twirl around each other, dancing playfully and then they are in her hair, smoothing the brown strands, brown like the mahogany table. But mostly his eyes are searching for hers, and he finds them, finds them in a way. And his eyes look at her eyes and her eyes look back at his eyes and then their bodies are hugging each other but she is walking away and he is standing on the wet road and her shoes are going squish, squish, squish.