I have no clue where this came from, to be honest. Random idea is random, so I wrote it out. I hope you like it!
-A
Crisp autumn air ruffles the scarce leaves of the tall pine trees on either side of the lane where she's walking, warm cardboard coffee cup in hand, a thin line of steam rising from the mouth at the top, momentarily forgotten as she speaks animatedly into her phone. Her voice is airy and light, face lit up and pink from her morning yoga class, nose and cheeks flushed a darker color by the cold.
"Yeah, that sounds nice," she says into the receiver, swirling the latte in her other hand and hitching her sports bag up higher on her shoulder with a shrug. "I'll give you a call when I get home, and we'll see, yeah?" There's an agreement on the other line, causing her lips to curve up into a smile, and she nods although the other girl can't see her. "Bye, Rach."
She hangs up, pausing in her steps to stick her phone into the side pocket of the white and gray duffle bag across her slim frame, arms and legs toned from exercise, her skin only a light tan as a remainder of the just passed summer in Ohio. She bends over on the gravel to tie up a shoelace that has become undone as she walked, and the silver chain with the Christian cross charm hangs from her neck, nudging up against her chin until she stands back up with a soft sigh, looking around her at the park.
It's almost noon this Saturday, and the playground is packed with children shrieking in laughter and chasing each other around the sandbox, the slides, the monkey bars... her warm chocolate eyes are tinged with sadness, and she's turning away to start walking back when she sees her.
It's got to be her. Blonde hair neatly braided back, a few strands hanging loose at the front from having been running around. His eyes; she has his eyes. Other than that, she looks just like her. She's wearing a light pink dress with a white cardigan, and pink ballet flats. She doesn't notice her watching, doesn't seem to notice anything at all besides the swing on which she's sitting, going back and forth. She looks about six.
Six years, seven months, and eight days.
She's transfixed, staring at the girl, something like a mother's instinct making her want to run up to her and hold her in her arms and take her back, but she can't. She knows she can't. But she wants to. She's wanted to.
Now more than ever.
He's running. Jogging is a better term for it; he's jogging down the street, earphones plugged in to his iPod, heart pumping steadily against his broad chest, covered with a gray hoodie with sweat stains down the back. His footsteps thump rhythmically against the sidewalk, but he can't hear them. A classic rock song blasts through his earphones, deafening him to every other sound around, his breath heavy from the strain.
He's thinking about the girl from church. She's Jewish, and she's pretty hot. He looks for more than physical attractiveness now, though. He's spoken to her a couple of times, and she's witty and funny, and reminds him of another girl he used to know. He still talks to his best friend sometimes, but most of the times not. They've grown apart, most of them; he feels like he's the only one that came back after college.
Sometimes, he looks at her name on the screen of his phone, but he never calls; he doesn't think he can. The street is busy, and he has to stop to wait for cars to pass to cross it towards the park. Somebody slows down to let him pass and he raises his hand in thanks—and that's when he sees her.
It's actually her.
Her lips are parted in surprise, but her face is turned away from him, towards the playground in the center of the park, and she's looking beautiful. She looks real, honest, vulnerable, and he feels his breath catch. The loud honking of the car next to him made him start and realize he's still standing in the middle of the road, and quickly jogs off it, slowing down once he reaches the pavement of the park, walking at a leisurely pace towards her.
The music in his ears stops as he turns it off, his heart beating for an entirely different reason now, eyes trained on the woman in front of him—she's looking at something else. Someone else, he realizes, as he approaches her slowly, standing beside her for a while before following her gaze to the little girl on the swings.
And he knows.
She looks up at him, then, her eyes a little glassy, and he takes her hand without breaking his gaze. Her blonde hair is tied up in a neat ponytail, and it reminds him so much of so long ago, and he loves her.
No words are spoken, only warm breaths against the icy air, fingers intertwined, security and years of searching and wanting and needing expressed with that one touch, that one look; then they both turn to the girl.
Beth.