Earlier that day, that sore-shoulder day, while we sat together under the umbrella, through rain and sun showers, you with your breakfast and I with my expectations, that day I looked right at you, right at you, and had my longings batted away.
We were discussing music, or more correctly, you were waxing with passion, and all of a sudden, I just saw, just saw, and you were so beautiful, swimming in life and love and energy, careless and thoughtless of any other moment except that very one, and I sighed inwardly, rested chin on hand, and let my own awe wash over me.
I must have had some beautific look upon my face, but you, so blessedly mindless and free of me, saw only another weird look, and laughingly accused me of not taking your words seriously. I probably wasn’t taking your words, in any fashion at all. I was somewhere else; right there, free of thought. Just so happy to find myself in the circle of your own joyful moment.
These days, I’m still not so certain that Love isn’t a myth spread by the greeting card industry. Maybe I’ve just lost hold of it, or have never really grasped it all. Or maybe, just maybe, Love flits right past my nose, is wafted on the air, is etherial, ether itself, an essence that fills me without my ever knowing.
And on that morning, you never saw it either. Oh, you saw something, read or mis-read it according to whatever synaethestic custom found you in that moment, but with a simple single laugh and wrinkle of brow, blew the ether away from me, and returned us to our entry into the sore-shouldered day.