Sometimes it felt like everything came down to a beautiful struggle in the dark, the work and work until she exhaled hard and they were both breathless in the dark back seat at Kailua Drive In, or under the massive Banyan tree spread over the street like a protective mother.
It was love at first sight, although neither one had actually believed in that until it happened. The green light said go. Then that kiss on Kāhala Avenue in the rain. Electric, they knew, the surge of real and true love, Hollywood-style.
Nowadays she says that never was the case. She’s silent on the matter afterwards.
When they sit at the beach, aging, she holds her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun, then spreads her fingers, sees the bright against the dark, behind it, makes a fist, then gives a thumbs up, the top part blocking out the sun on her gray eyes.
He watches this, gives her sidelong glances from behind his mirrored sunglasses. Insists to himself that it was. It definitely was a movie moment. Missing it. All of it.
And those fingers. They’re good fingers. Strong and articulate. How they work so well when you’re young, before arthritis comes creeping in.
Every time he thinks about how she peels her grapes, each green grape, her perfect fingernails like tiny paring knives, stripping off the outer layer of thin skin, it makes him want to gag.
Remembering the past. Imagining the present. How nostalgia weaves memory and desire when you sit at a table for one. The next cup of coffee, and the next going down, day after day, the taste persisting, the want of it definite and hard.
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The prompt for today is
Use it to inspire a piece of writing, and then post that piece as a comment below. I would love to read it : )