A Spring Time Walk

Across the linoleum covered table, moving the moisture from the glass with the tip of her, often, gentle finger, resting her cheek on the folded wrist of a table elbowed arm, watching the droplets shift, she asked, “You still gunna get the special?” Relaxing her shoulders and making eye contact with him, the man she came in with.

He sat with posture, hands folded in the lap of his short pants, noticing how locked her eyes were on his, “Sure,” he said, with rhetorical intentions. Tapping the passing barmaid, he told her to add a beer to their tab. “Draft. Biggest, cheapest you’ve got.”

Just outside the window front, a small child, hand handled by a presumable responsible adult, skipped a step and planted its knee square into the corner of the only concrete stair to the establishment, paused at its conflicted instant, pain pervading its neural network, face reddening, the parent picked up the child, half sorry, half smiling, and continued on their way.

“Let’s get some beers to go,” She told him, breaking her visual bond at his involuntary response. Her exhale of vented laughter, accompanied by the around the place, returning glance, the pause of confidence, smirking, raised eye brow, her slightly parted lips emitting the beckoning question again with only a playfully inquisitive, soulfully serious sound, moving over the musical scale, low, hesitating, quickly rising, and holding a half measure longer than any that had been asked of him in his recent memory. He agreed.

The vibrant day outside faded into their little dive bar booth, the greasy food, so decadent in its deliciousness, so stumbled upon by the out front sign, so much right then. Unaware of anything past or future, eating fries. Drinking beer. Noticing anything only for the reaction of another. Perhaps the universe, he thought, is only slightly bigger than our brain’s space. Just enough that we can’t grasp its entirety. The ocean no longer concerns itself with the land. The sea knows who has lost.

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