It was the world’s most beautiful sandcastle. But still she frowned. “No, no,” she said. “Wait,” I protested, but she kicked it down again.
He has scars she can see and some she only feels. Distrust. Paranoia. And, on bad days, the back of his hand. They are both survivors.
Pressed against a stranger in the bus, I felt a knot on my breast—soft, small and secretive. I missed my stop for the first time that day.
Her boyfriend drank coffee black, ate pancakes cold without syrup or jam. He took no pleasure in his food. Feeling their future, she left.
Candle flame dances to fiddler’s music in dim light. His voice caresses, like his touch. With down turned, wet eyes, she savors the moment.
She cooed, unaware of his guilt. He fretted over how to tell her. He didn’t need to. She read his eyes, smiled and offered the cookie.