377: Endless Futures
Whoops, I haven’t posted in a while.
She stands on the balcony with her small hands resting on the cool railing, wearing a sheer nightgown, basking in the serenity of the dark before the dawn. He would not have liked her wearing his gift outside, but surely no one could see her now. She gazes into the horizon, waiting for the sun to rise and illuminate the midnight purple sky.
How easy it is for her to say that they both worked hard to get where they were now. Their own apartment together, studying in their dream degree together, sleeping in the same bed together. How easy it was for her then to dream of such a thing. Even though they had been together for a while, longer than most couples had been when they graduated high school, it was still all too surreal for her. She was, is, will be living a dream that teeters on the fine line between reality and imagination.
She stands there indefinitely. Her hands become immune to the cool touch of the metal beneath her fingers. The sun, pulling itself into the sky and radiating its warmth, sending rays of light from heaven itself, emboldening the shape of the billowing clouds in the far off distance. If she wasn’t so careful (and she wasn’t), she would go so far as to say that this would be what she’d see when she was as close as she could be to her lover, best friend, future husband, partner for life. To see the sunrise was, is, could have been, will be, her happiness. With his arms wrapped around her waist of course. But he hadn’t woken up yet, at least in this fantasy set up. Maybe in a while he’ll wake up, wander half-asleep to the balcony with the screen door that has been carefully opened so as to not have woken him up hours earlier, and he’ll see her standing there, still as a post, watching the sky unload its daily story. He’ll see she’s wearing that nightgown, and he’ll go to scold her, but she’ll turn around and smile, and she’ll say,
“Good morning honey. Did you have a good sleep?”
He’ll think about what she said, with an arm resting on the frame of the screen door. He loves the sound of her voice, even if she doesn’t herself. The perfect number eight will roll around in his mind, and then he’ll think of her rolling around on their bed. No. Nah. He wouldn’t do that. He’ll just think about how he’s perpetually tired. He hasn’t gotten the perfect number of hours of sleep since tenth grade. Or maybe even ninth, depending on what version of stories he’s told his girl. She probably doesn’t remember, on account of her short term memory loss. But, since it’s a weekend…
“Yes, bub. What are you doing there? Why are you wearing that?”
She’ll come away from the balcony. The sky lost her attention as soon as he came out to the balcony. She’ll smile at him, one of those secret, furtive smiles she reserves for him, that twinkle in her right eye when she smirks crookedly. His breath will catch in this throat, only momentarily – she’s done this more times than he can count, but still – and then she’ll wrap her arms around his neck and wait for him to do the same around her waist. She’ll have brushed her teeth long before he woke up, but she’ll kiss him, morning breath or not, all the same. She will like waking him up even more with a morning kiss, then breakfast, then more kisses. And normally they’ll have rushed off to the clinic, but it’s a weekend, so she’ll probably take him back to bed so that they can discuss their future, their past, their present, and everything in between.
Huh. I like writing in future tense. I wonder if anyone else does that. Probably. I didn’t invent future tense so yes, probably. Rambling.
I love you, honey. Here’s the post.