him and her
disclaimer: not mine.
He sees her in the reflection of his glass, wearing the smile that fragilely breaks away. He sits at the back of her bar, half hidden in shadows and dimmed in lights; though he knows that she sees him, though pays him no heed.
She dances sometimes, in the swirl of red chardonnay, hues that bring colour to her hair and a shy grin to her face, one that makes the world fall away and everything seem alright. She hums, soft and gentle, but he can hear it, vibrations on his hand, warm like the beat of her heart.
He thinks about giving her roses, just to make her face feel a true smile. It's not meant to make her feel seduced, not meant to make her look away and murmur her gratitude in whispers that burn away what little hope remains. It's only meant to be a sign of peace.
She smiles that sad smile of hers, that he hates so much and her face glances at the door, waiting for someone that never comes. Tucking her hair, shorter and prettier than when he first saw her, a half-smile ripples onto her face. But it disappears as quickly as another customer calls her attention.
He dreams about her, occasionally. Thinks that he'd like to take her hand and lead her into a dance, despite having left feet and no music to dance with. But they'd make beautiful music, under bright stars and fading stars, gently building a stairway to heaven with their hands.
She laughs at that when she hears it, a rich voice that runs deep into his spine, tingling as she pours him more wine, swaying as she dances a tune to her own.
He thinks that he could never match a tune like hers, beautiful and earthy, growing a garden that remains unseen in the aroma of roses and stardust.
She only smiles at the thought, not once looking at the door in hope of a ghost that comes back and forth, sweeping away the mud and leaving nothing behind.
He buys her a bouquet, of flowers made of silk and paper, in hope that she'll throw away, casting his heart into dirt, where he cannot pick it up.
She doesn't, only softening her eyes, wine-red with the lightening burden of loss. And so, she keeps his heart, glancing at it whenever it rains, feeling his cool hands against her skin. She murmurs her thanks and presses her lips against his cheek, lipstick smearing his cheek.
He meets her in her garden, offering some seeds as a sign of starting over.
She smiles, one that is bright and earnest, and makes her look like a child with mud on her face and mud on his face. There is dirt and grime and rainfall on both of them, and yet neither has the will to care. They have been forgotten for too long, silently agreeing on a deal not to talk about their comrades that come and go like seasons that promise sun, rain, wind and snow.
And when that flower blooms into something beautiful, it is surrounded by flowers of many kinds, wilting different sorrows, and waiting for the rain to fall and make them sparkle anew.
The ghosts that haunt them are blown away by the changing wind.
So the sun shines upon them, and smiles in radiance.
