They were young. Wait awhile, I thought, and then you'll see what love is really like: going to bed each night glad you didn't kill your spouse and calling that happily married. I thought about them the entire ride home, how they laughed so unselfconsciously. Maybe we were like that before the world became fast and digital. When I parked the car, I realized I'd forgotten the pasta shells. I sighed and headed back to the store. The afternoon sun was warm on my face, and I thought I'd buy a good bottle of wine for dinner, something she likes.
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I watched him leave the driveway. He had the top down even though snow was forecast. Some days he forgets where he is going, but he always finds his way home. Young people seem to bother him--their noise and energy. Maybe he's frightened of them; I don't know. Some nights I rub my palm against his shoulders, feeling familiar warmth there. When he is restless I leave for the sofa but always return to bed before he awakes. He's sometimes surprised to see me then. "I dreamed you were gone," he says. "I know," I tell him. "I know."
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1 comment:
Gorgeous writing, Bob, and wonderfully-nuanced thinking. Pairing the POVs is effective and offers the reader so many opportunities for compassion and personal insight. Carry on with this project, please. I want to read an entire collection.
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