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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Love / Romance / Dating
- Published: 07/02/2020
He looked in the mirror one last time. He didn’t see the handsome, quiet, caring, kind man that she saw. He just saw an ordinary guy…just about average in every way. Well, except for the flame red hair and the slightly wider shoulders…shoulders that would fit on a man a half a foot taller, and fifty pounds heavier.
His hair was combed, his face freshly shaven- unlike his contemporaries he did not like beards…or mustaches- and one of his few Vanity Fears was that hair would sprout on his back some day. He liked his sprinkle of freckles…so did she, she called them “life sprinkles” and kissed every single one of them over the years. It made him laugh. Some folks got butterfly kisses, he got sprinkle kisses; same soft touch for both.
He straightened his tie, pulled on his one (and only) Sports Jacket. Patted his pocket one more time…the ring was still there…safe in its velvet prison. He smiled at his reflection, gave it a wink and said:
“Good luck! Today is the day.”
A moment later, he turned the key in the ignition…sure it was a ten year old Toyota Truck, but it was his…and paid for. Then…he was off…smiling like a loon…it would be a great day.
*****
She set the Lemonade on the coffee table. Along with a couple of tumblers to pour it into. He loved her lemonade - and her. A tear trickled down her cheek, closely resembling the condensation on the outside of the ice filled pitcher. She wiped it away, just like she had all the others that trickled out at random all morning.
She was wearing her gardening clothes. Something about digging in the deep dark earth had relaxed her a little. She couldn’t unwind no matter how much she weeded, pruned, or planted. He would be here at Noon. They were supposed to go to lunch at their favorite restaurant. Neither of them had ever been there at Noon before. It was their favorite nighttime place to eat. Not daytime.
She just thought it was one of the many little things he did to liven up their day, showing he cared in all the kind small acts he did for her. Another tear wiggled free of her eyelid…splashing down onto a sprig of parsley. She watched it fade, as another tear tried to find a way out.
He would be here soon. If she knew him (and she did), he would pitch right in carrying the plants from her SUV to the garden. Not even dawning on him that she wasn’t dressed to go out. It was his nature to help first…then ask what is going on. Another tear fell.
She continued to find what solace she could as she pruned plants that she had already pruned three times that morning.
He would be here…soon.
*****
He pulled in the driveway. His girl was wearing her “farmer’s gear” and had her work gloves on. She was unloading a whole trunk: full of plants, vases, and mulch. He held his door open for a bit to remove his jacket and tie. He threw them in the cab across the passenger seat and moved quickly to help her unload. He worked, as he always did, quietly, quickly, efficiently.
In less time than she thought, he had moved everything from the back of the SUV. Stacking the mulch bags in the garage, lining the plants up next to the garden, and organizing the vases on the shelf in her garden shed. As always, he moved without any fuss or glamour…just getting the job done and done well. She loved that about him.
“Thanks. Would you like to come inside and get some lemonade? I have something to tell you.”
“Sure. You know I like your Lemonade. And you…”
He leaned in to give her a butterfly kiss on the neck. She drew back. It should have been a hint. He just chalked it up to her being sweaty and dirty from working in the garden. He was wrong.
*****
She sat on one side of the coffee table - he perched on the edge of the couch on the opposite side. He was watching the way she poured the lemonade while carefully avoiding making eye contact. He waited. He knew her moods. Sometimes, when she had something she wanted to say…she had to gather herself. Then, like a dam breaking, all her thoughts and feelings would pour out in a torrent of emotions.
So he waited.
She made eye contact. The dam broke. The words poured out. Tears fell completely unnoticed by her, each one a dagger to him. For a lifetime words he never expected flung rejection at him in heaps of honesty. An honesty he always admired…before.
The words that stung the most: “I don’t love you anymore” joined forces with the gist of her confession: “We have been together for eight years…eight years. Ever since Ninth Grade…I have never kissed another man, held another hand, or had an experience that you weren’t in with me. I need to grow. To expand my horizons. To become my own person. And I need to do it without you.”
There. She was done. She had taken weeks to get up the courage to tell him what had been simmering inside her for months. Now that it was over. She waited for his response.
There wasn’t any.
He simply got up. Thanked her for the lemonade and left. She watched out the window as he took something out of his pocket, went over to the storm sewer in front of her neighbors yard… and threw something down the drain.
He walked back to his truck without a single glance at her standing in the window, backed out slowly and drove out of her life.
“Goodbye.” She whispered. Tears fell as she took a sip from his glass of lemonade. The last time she would touch his lips…even indirectly. By the time she pulled on her gloves and went back to garden, her face was dry. Her smile fixed.
She wondered why she didn’t feel as free as she thought she would. She buried that thought deep in the garden soil along with the relief she felt.
*****
Thirty years of life had passed by like so many grains of sand in an hour glass. Each moment a real thing, but moving too fast to get a grip on. She had travelled most of the globe. She had a few boyfriends, and more than a few flings. Men of almost every color and nationality had shared her open laughter, calm demeanor, and search for experience…and even a few women. She had wanted all that life had to offer, and choked on occasion when she bit off too big a chunk of life to swallow.
She had felt danger, excitement, and fear…sometimes all at the same time. Once in the hands of her most exciting lover, she wondered if she would live through it all. Once is all it took for her to learn that human bodies and spirits aren’t meant to survive that kind of relationship for any length of time. It either burns you out, or eats you up, there isn’t any other ending for it. She chose to just end it.
Sex, she decided, wanes. Love…grows. Sweaty rolls in the hay with two exhausted humans laying in a puddle of fluids came in a very distant second to a soft cuddle, laughter from lips just inches apart, or hands held in silence as a stroll on the beach said it all.
By the time she was thirty three years old sexual adventures had dropped completely off her list. She wanted a friend. A companion. A person she could trust. She wanted to make love again, not have sex. A frown formed on her still youthful face as she thought in her head:
'When did I learn the difference between having sex and making love? And when did I learn that I can love without either?'
She didn’t answer herself. She knew the answer. It was him. The guy who she last saw walk back to his truck, his lemonade almost untouched - and throw something into the drain. She often wondered what it was. She often wondered where he was. She hoped he was happy.
A tear would form. She would wipe it off, shrug her shoulders and give herself a talking to:
“You did the right thing. You would have never sailed the South Pacific, made love with that marvelous man in Morocco, or climbed to see the volcano lakes in Ecuador.
You would have lived fifty years with the same man, in the same place, in the same house, being loved the whole time. It would have bored you to tears."
She could do that speech from memory. She had been using it as a litany for three decades - and she almost believed it.
And then…Paris.
*****
Thirty years of travel and adventure had left her (ironically enough) in the city of Romance. She had the city in her heart, but no Romance. Paris, for her, was all the good things she had craved: culture, adventure, excitement, passion, everything but Love. That, she had never found again since the red headed boy/man she watched walk from her porch. His shoulders square. He hadn’t said a word.
She had thanked him silently for that for thirty years, while at the same time cursing him for his kindness. He had listened. He had no answer she wanted…so he simply nodded once…and left. She wanted him to yell, to cry, to do something. Maybe throw his glass at the floor, tip over the coffee table, tell her she was wrong. Nope.
He just nodded once and walked out. Respect and integrity in each and every step. He showed her, in the way he walked out, that he respected her, her choice, and understood her needs.
Nobody else had…since then.
And so she was primed for a surprise in Paris. A city known for surprises.
*****
She sat in a little square off of the Rue de Lafayette - a few blocks from the Seine. She had ordered coffee and a croissant. Enough of her American habits had been peeled away that the thirty minute wait for either to show up at her table didn’t cause her to become irritated or anxious. Instead it seemed, like everything French, to give her time to absorb the moment. So she did.
“Mademoiselle, here is your order.”
“Merci.” Came out of her mouth without a thought.
She noticed a crooked smile on the Waiter’s face…one she couldn’t place. It looked like the smile a Mother and Father might share when toddlers told them what Santa should give them for Christmas.
Or one of those smiles best friend’s share when one knows the other is about to get good news…but not what news. It was that kind of smile. She followed his eyes as they directed her to look at her order.
The croissant was there…the coffee…was not. Instead there was a clear glass tumbler filled with lemonade.
The waiter spoke:
“From the Gentleman over there... by the flowers.”
She looked up. It was him. The flaming red hair was now a dark mahogany like oiled red wood. He had glasses now. She liked them on him. On the table in front of him, a small velvet box sat immobile.
Her heart stirred. It couldn’t be …could it? She took her drink, the Waiter carried her croissant for her. Once she was seated, the waiter gave that Cheshire grin again and left.
She merely soaked in his presence for several moments. He returned the scrutiny without an ounce of embarrassment, hesitation, or judgement.
He tapped the velvet box with his finger. Once. Twice. Three times.
“We need to talk.”
She smiled. She was listening.
We need to talk.(Kevin Hughes)
He looked in the mirror one last time. He didn’t see the handsome, quiet, caring, kind man that she saw. He just saw an ordinary guy…just about average in every way. Well, except for the flame red hair and the slightly wider shoulders…shoulders that would fit on a man a half a foot taller, and fifty pounds heavier.
His hair was combed, his face freshly shaven- unlike his contemporaries he did not like beards…or mustaches- and one of his few Vanity Fears was that hair would sprout on his back some day. He liked his sprinkle of freckles…so did she, she called them “life sprinkles” and kissed every single one of them over the years. It made him laugh. Some folks got butterfly kisses, he got sprinkle kisses; same soft touch for both.
He straightened his tie, pulled on his one (and only) Sports Jacket. Patted his pocket one more time…the ring was still there…safe in its velvet prison. He smiled at his reflection, gave it a wink and said:
“Good luck! Today is the day.”
A moment later, he turned the key in the ignition…sure it was a ten year old Toyota Truck, but it was his…and paid for. Then…he was off…smiling like a loon…it would be a great day.
*****
She set the Lemonade on the coffee table. Along with a couple of tumblers to pour it into. He loved her lemonade - and her. A tear trickled down her cheek, closely resembling the condensation on the outside of the ice filled pitcher. She wiped it away, just like she had all the others that trickled out at random all morning.
She was wearing her gardening clothes. Something about digging in the deep dark earth had relaxed her a little. She couldn’t unwind no matter how much she weeded, pruned, or planted. He would be here at Noon. They were supposed to go to lunch at their favorite restaurant. Neither of them had ever been there at Noon before. It was their favorite nighttime place to eat. Not daytime.
She just thought it was one of the many little things he did to liven up their day, showing he cared in all the kind small acts he did for her. Another tear wiggled free of her eyelid…splashing down onto a sprig of parsley. She watched it fade, as another tear tried to find a way out.
He would be here soon. If she knew him (and she did), he would pitch right in carrying the plants from her SUV to the garden. Not even dawning on him that she wasn’t dressed to go out. It was his nature to help first…then ask what is going on. Another tear fell.
She continued to find what solace she could as she pruned plants that she had already pruned three times that morning.
He would be here…soon.
*****
He pulled in the driveway. His girl was wearing her “farmer’s gear” and had her work gloves on. She was unloading a whole trunk: full of plants, vases, and mulch. He held his door open for a bit to remove his jacket and tie. He threw them in the cab across the passenger seat and moved quickly to help her unload. He worked, as he always did, quietly, quickly, efficiently.
In less time than she thought, he had moved everything from the back of the SUV. Stacking the mulch bags in the garage, lining the plants up next to the garden, and organizing the vases on the shelf in her garden shed. As always, he moved without any fuss or glamour…just getting the job done and done well. She loved that about him.
“Thanks. Would you like to come inside and get some lemonade? I have something to tell you.”
“Sure. You know I like your Lemonade. And you…”
He leaned in to give her a butterfly kiss on the neck. She drew back. It should have been a hint. He just chalked it up to her being sweaty and dirty from working in the garden. He was wrong.
*****
She sat on one side of the coffee table - he perched on the edge of the couch on the opposite side. He was watching the way she poured the lemonade while carefully avoiding making eye contact. He waited. He knew her moods. Sometimes, when she had something she wanted to say…she had to gather herself. Then, like a dam breaking, all her thoughts and feelings would pour out in a torrent of emotions.
So he waited.
She made eye contact. The dam broke. The words poured out. Tears fell completely unnoticed by her, each one a dagger to him. For a lifetime words he never expected flung rejection at him in heaps of honesty. An honesty he always admired…before.
The words that stung the most: “I don’t love you anymore” joined forces with the gist of her confession: “We have been together for eight years…eight years. Ever since Ninth Grade…I have never kissed another man, held another hand, or had an experience that you weren’t in with me. I need to grow. To expand my horizons. To become my own person. And I need to do it without you.”
There. She was done. She had taken weeks to get up the courage to tell him what had been simmering inside her for months. Now that it was over. She waited for his response.
There wasn’t any.
He simply got up. Thanked her for the lemonade and left. She watched out the window as he took something out of his pocket, went over to the storm sewer in front of her neighbors yard… and threw something down the drain.
He walked back to his truck without a single glance at her standing in the window, backed out slowly and drove out of her life.
“Goodbye.” She whispered. Tears fell as she took a sip from his glass of lemonade. The last time she would touch his lips…even indirectly. By the time she pulled on her gloves and went back to garden, her face was dry. Her smile fixed.
She wondered why she didn’t feel as free as she thought she would. She buried that thought deep in the garden soil along with the relief she felt.
*****
Thirty years of life had passed by like so many grains of sand in an hour glass. Each moment a real thing, but moving too fast to get a grip on. She had travelled most of the globe. She had a few boyfriends, and more than a few flings. Men of almost every color and nationality had shared her open laughter, calm demeanor, and search for experience…and even a few women. She had wanted all that life had to offer, and choked on occasion when she bit off too big a chunk of life to swallow.
She had felt danger, excitement, and fear…sometimes all at the same time. Once in the hands of her most exciting lover, she wondered if she would live through it all. Once is all it took for her to learn that human bodies and spirits aren’t meant to survive that kind of relationship for any length of time. It either burns you out, or eats you up, there isn’t any other ending for it. She chose to just end it.
Sex, she decided, wanes. Love…grows. Sweaty rolls in the hay with two exhausted humans laying in a puddle of fluids came in a very distant second to a soft cuddle, laughter from lips just inches apart, or hands held in silence as a stroll on the beach said it all.
By the time she was thirty three years old sexual adventures had dropped completely off her list. She wanted a friend. A companion. A person she could trust. She wanted to make love again, not have sex. A frown formed on her still youthful face as she thought in her head:
'When did I learn the difference between having sex and making love? And when did I learn that I can love without either?'
She didn’t answer herself. She knew the answer. It was him. The guy who she last saw walk back to his truck, his lemonade almost untouched - and throw something into the drain. She often wondered what it was. She often wondered where he was. She hoped he was happy.
A tear would form. She would wipe it off, shrug her shoulders and give herself a talking to:
“You did the right thing. You would have never sailed the South Pacific, made love with that marvelous man in Morocco, or climbed to see the volcano lakes in Ecuador.
You would have lived fifty years with the same man, in the same place, in the same house, being loved the whole time. It would have bored you to tears."
She could do that speech from memory. She had been using it as a litany for three decades - and she almost believed it.
And then…Paris.
*****
Thirty years of travel and adventure had left her (ironically enough) in the city of Romance. She had the city in her heart, but no Romance. Paris, for her, was all the good things she had craved: culture, adventure, excitement, passion, everything but Love. That, she had never found again since the red headed boy/man she watched walk from her porch. His shoulders square. He hadn’t said a word.
She had thanked him silently for that for thirty years, while at the same time cursing him for his kindness. He had listened. He had no answer she wanted…so he simply nodded once…and left. She wanted him to yell, to cry, to do something. Maybe throw his glass at the floor, tip over the coffee table, tell her she was wrong. Nope.
He just nodded once and walked out. Respect and integrity in each and every step. He showed her, in the way he walked out, that he respected her, her choice, and understood her needs.
Nobody else had…since then.
And so she was primed for a surprise in Paris. A city known for surprises.
*****
She sat in a little square off of the Rue de Lafayette - a few blocks from the Seine. She had ordered coffee and a croissant. Enough of her American habits had been peeled away that the thirty minute wait for either to show up at her table didn’t cause her to become irritated or anxious. Instead it seemed, like everything French, to give her time to absorb the moment. So she did.
“Mademoiselle, here is your order.”
“Merci.” Came out of her mouth without a thought.
She noticed a crooked smile on the Waiter’s face…one she couldn’t place. It looked like the smile a Mother and Father might share when toddlers told them what Santa should give them for Christmas.
Or one of those smiles best friend’s share when one knows the other is about to get good news…but not what news. It was that kind of smile. She followed his eyes as they directed her to look at her order.
The croissant was there…the coffee…was not. Instead there was a clear glass tumbler filled with lemonade.
The waiter spoke:
“From the Gentleman over there... by the flowers.”
She looked up. It was him. The flaming red hair was now a dark mahogany like oiled red wood. He had glasses now. She liked them on him. On the table in front of him, a small velvet box sat immobile.
Her heart stirred. It couldn’t be …could it? She took her drink, the Waiter carried her croissant for her. Once she was seated, the waiter gave that Cheshire grin again and left.
She merely soaked in his presence for several moments. He returned the scrutiny without an ounce of embarrassment, hesitation, or judgement.
He tapped the velvet box with his finger. Once. Twice. Three times.
“We need to talk.”
She smiled. She was listening.
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