Conditional Love.
The trees had changed colors weeks ago, and the leaves were beginning to fall.
The trees were on fire—their red and orange plumage waving back and forth as if dancing with the sunlight. The occasional ember would dance to the ground, setting the world of fire. Or so it seemed.
The air was brisk, and people walked briskly. And though it was not cold enough for you to see your own breath, it was cold enough to give her an excuse to walk just one step closer to him.
She was wearing that beige trench coat that he liked. The one he loved to hug her in, because the lining around the collar was so soft. The one that always smelled of a peach orchard in July, with a hint of mothballs—the one he’d go to if ever he forgot how she smelled. It wasn’t the most expensive thing, but it was something he’d bought her—the only thing that he bought her, other than jewelry, which she actually wore. She’d told him that just because Old Navy runs commercials on tunics, did not mean that they were in style.
They walked side by side, the leaves dancing around their feet, as they made their way through the park. Gusts of wind that redirected errant frisbees into the lake, threatened to knock her over, giving him a reason to wrap his arm around her waist and draw her near. At first, she had to skip every few steps to keep up with his strong broad strides, her heels performing an erratic tap dance routine against the blacktop sidewalk. But in time, he slowed his steps and they found their harmony.
Her feet hurt. He had stolen her away during her lunch period, because…well, he had no reason. So they sat down on a bench beside the lake. Her head on his shoulder, her hair cascading over the arm with which he protected her. They sat in silence.
She shivered. “Honey, here. Wear this. I don’t need it.” He got up, took off his jacket, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She didn’t need it, but she let him. Wrapping the jacket tightly around her, smelling Old Spice, and mothballs.
And though you could probably tell, they were in love.
***
The sky had darkened hours ago, and the rain was beginning to fall.
Soon, the lightning conducted the symphony that was being drummed on the roof of their 1987 Ford Festiva, and as nature gave a thunderous applause after each short movement, she could almost feel the rust fall from the car.
She didn’t have to tell him that, “she’d told him so.” He didn’t have to look at her to know that there was a scowl where, normally, her face would have been. Not that she had to remind him. Oil, rain and blood were caked around his fingernails, for he had just spent the last thirty minutes outside trying to dislodge the spare tire that was bolted to the bottom of their car. It didn’t help that they were in want of a wrench, or the contraption he had lost ages ago when he had still needed things to prod lizards with. Instead, he had tried to twist the bolt of with his hands, and instead ended up flipping off the fingernail on his thumb. No, she didn’t have to remind him of the vehemence in which she had warned against driving his grandfather’s old car to their friend’s housewarming party, but she did anyway.
They were both soaking wet, a full ten pounds heavier than when they had begun the trip. She had tried to roll up the windows then the rain started to fall, but found that the windows only went three-quarters of the way up. He’d found a similar problem with the window on his side, the only difference being that his side didn’t have a window.
The John Hopkins sweater that she had on had changed a couple shades darker, and the arms that were once crossed in defiance were now crossed to try to keep herself warm.
“Honey, here. Wear this. I don’t need it.” She looked over as he took off his jacket, and tried to wrap it around her shivering shoulders, the musty smell of Old Spice deodorant enveloped her. He was wearing only that pink J. Crew polo she had gotten him for Christmas. The one she had dared him to wear, saying that, “only real men wear pink.” How many times she thought to herself if only she could take back those words, for the collar was now frayed and the color faded. She shrugged him off, brushing his hands off her shoulder; rivers flowing down her arm, like water wrung from a wet towel, as she tightened her arms against her chest.
And though you probably couldn’t tell, they were in love.
The trees were on fire—their red and orange plumage waving back and forth as if dancing with the sunlight. The occasional ember would dance to the ground, setting the world of fire. Or so it seemed.
The air was brisk, and people walked briskly. And though it was not cold enough for you to see your own breath, it was cold enough to give her an excuse to walk just one step closer to him.
She was wearing that beige trench coat that he liked. The one he loved to hug her in, because the lining around the collar was so soft. The one that always smelled of a peach orchard in July, with a hint of mothballs—the one he’d go to if ever he forgot how she smelled. It wasn’t the most expensive thing, but it was something he’d bought her—the only thing that he bought her, other than jewelry, which she actually wore. She’d told him that just because Old Navy runs commercials on tunics, did not mean that they were in style.
They walked side by side, the leaves dancing around their feet, as they made their way through the park. Gusts of wind that redirected errant frisbees into the lake, threatened to knock her over, giving him a reason to wrap his arm around her waist and draw her near. At first, she had to skip every few steps to keep up with his strong broad strides, her heels performing an erratic tap dance routine against the blacktop sidewalk. But in time, he slowed his steps and they found their harmony.
Her feet hurt. He had stolen her away during her lunch period, because…well, he had no reason. So they sat down on a bench beside the lake. Her head on his shoulder, her hair cascading over the arm with which he protected her. They sat in silence.
She shivered. “Honey, here. Wear this. I don’t need it.” He got up, took off his jacket, and wrapped it around her shoulders. She didn’t need it, but she let him. Wrapping the jacket tightly around her, smelling Old Spice, and mothballs.
And though you could probably tell, they were in love.
***
The sky had darkened hours ago, and the rain was beginning to fall.
Soon, the lightning conducted the symphony that was being drummed on the roof of their 1987 Ford Festiva, and as nature gave a thunderous applause after each short movement, she could almost feel the rust fall from the car.
She didn’t have to tell him that, “she’d told him so.” He didn’t have to look at her to know that there was a scowl where, normally, her face would have been. Not that she had to remind him. Oil, rain and blood were caked around his fingernails, for he had just spent the last thirty minutes outside trying to dislodge the spare tire that was bolted to the bottom of their car. It didn’t help that they were in want of a wrench, or the contraption he had lost ages ago when he had still needed things to prod lizards with. Instead, he had tried to twist the bolt of with his hands, and instead ended up flipping off the fingernail on his thumb. No, she didn’t have to remind him of the vehemence in which she had warned against driving his grandfather’s old car to their friend’s housewarming party, but she did anyway.
They were both soaking wet, a full ten pounds heavier than when they had begun the trip. She had tried to roll up the windows then the rain started to fall, but found that the windows only went three-quarters of the way up. He’d found a similar problem with the window on his side, the only difference being that his side didn’t have a window.
The John Hopkins sweater that she had on had changed a couple shades darker, and the arms that were once crossed in defiance were now crossed to try to keep herself warm.
“Honey, here. Wear this. I don’t need it.” She looked over as he took off his jacket, and tried to wrap it around her shivering shoulders, the musty smell of Old Spice deodorant enveloped her. He was wearing only that pink J. Crew polo she had gotten him for Christmas. The one she had dared him to wear, saying that, “only real men wear pink.” How many times she thought to herself if only she could take back those words, for the collar was now frayed and the color faded. She shrugged him off, brushing his hands off her shoulder; rivers flowing down her arm, like water wrung from a wet towel, as she tightened her arms against her chest.
And though you probably couldn’t tell, they were in love.
posted by jamesvonkim at 9:12 AM
2 comments
